


Reclamation

by The_Asset6



Series: The Light in the Shadows [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Animal as Main Character, Depression, Emotional Trauma, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter AU, Hogwarts AU, Hurt No Comfort, Loss of Identity, Mild Gore, No Comfort At Least For a While, Non-Graphic Violence, Political Animals References, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-26 02:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 125,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7556686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Asset6/pseuds/The_Asset6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say James Barnes died in a terrible tragedy. They say at least he didn't perish alone.</p><p>Perhaps they’re right.</p><p>Lost in the guise of Yasha Smirnov, Bucky returns to Hogwarts following the closure of Durmstrang, but nothing is the same. The world isn’t the bright, warm place it once was. It’s been replaced by a cold, cruel rock where everything is fleeting and everyone is destined to tread the path alone.</p><p>Unless, of course, they find companions on the road.</p><p> </p><p>Sequel to "World So Cold"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last One Standing (2012)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back! If you are new to this series, I recommend you read "World So Cold" before starting this story. This is a direct sequel and _not_ a fic you can jump into without the background provided by the first story in the series. If you do, consider this your spoiler warning!
> 
> Any dialogue enclosed by pointed brackets indicates that the characters are speaking Russian, which you will see for much of this story; normal quotes indicate that English is being spoken. If there are any significant jumps in time, the year will be placed in the chapter title and I'll let you know in this space (as well as if I have updated any tags). Please be advised that this story will be much darker than the last, as I'm sure you'll be able to see by comparing the tags. The story is almost completely written, so I'm hoping to continue updating daily as I did with WSC. 
> 
> Without further ado, here's the first chapter!

“ _Reparo._ ”

The little hole in Winter’s stuffed monkey mended immediately, leaving it looking as good as new in the palm of Yasha’s hand. He glanced down at his cat and smiled a little, holding the monkey just out of her reach as he whispered, <You need to be careful with this little guy, okay, Win?>

Winter answered with an aborted mewl and pawed at his knee until Yasha handed her the toy. She’d always had a way of understanding what he was saying (no matter what language he said it in), and this time was no exception. Instead of pouncing on the monkey, she dragged it up into Yasha’s lap and curled into a ball, hugging it between her paws.

<Good girl,> he murmured, stroking her fur. The vibration of her purrs tickled against his leg, but he didn’t dare to move if she was comfortable where she was.

The sun was just now rising over the horizon to welcome September first, the pinkish hues streaking across the sky unmarred by clouds. He could see the silhouette of St. Basil’s Cathedral outside his window as the bright and varied colors began to differentiate themselves from the dark mass they became at night. Yasha sighed heavily as he turned his gaze from the window toward his packed trunk and Winter’s cage sitting ready by his bedroom door. Natasha would be here in an hour, and then they’d be traveling to London with Mikhail and Tatiana to catch the train to Hogwarts.

His letter had come during the first week of August, so there had been plenty of time to get the required school supplies for all sixth years. A lot of people he knew would be going to Beauxbatons instead since they lived under the arbitrary line the British and French Ministries had drawn to divide the former Durmstrang students between them. He hadn’t heard from the Maximoffs or Skye all summer, but he knew Nat and Jarvis, at least, would be coming with him to Hogwarts.

Not that he’d spoken to either of them recently, he remembered as he glanced at the clock. There was a tiny wedge of guilt buried deep in his chest, but it wasn’t enough to bother him for more than a moment.

The last two months had been… Well, things had changed. Four people had died, one of whom was supposed to be him, but while most of the Wizarding world mourned for a few days and then moved on with life, his entire world had been shattered to pieces. Magic was useless. So were his guardians. Tatiana and Mikhail had done their best to help, he _knew_ that. There were things that were simply beyond their capabilities, however, no matter how powerful they were in the Russian Ministry of Magic. They couldn’t glue the tattered remains of his life back together any more than they could bring back the dead.

As quickly as his world had plummeted out from beneath him, he felt himself vanish into the void left behind just as fast. The nightmares hadn’t stopped once, the sleeping _or_ the waking ones. Winter was the only being in existence that he’d spoken to ever since that day unless it was one-word answers and gestures. Tatiana talked to him without expecting a response while Mikhail usually sat in silent solidarity when he entered the room. Nat had come by to see him a few times, but Tatiana had kindly made excuses—he was out or he was sick or he was still sleeping or he was taking Winter to the vet or he was running errands. She’d given up eventually, although not enough to refrain from sending him an owl saying she’d be there at seven o’clock _sharp_ on September first and he’d better have his ass out of bed and ready by the time she arrived.

She was a good friend. It really was too bad she had to put up with him being a shitty one.

<What do you think, Win?> he sighed. <It’s six-thirty. Time to get ready?>

Winter shot him a flatly disapproving look before turning, rubbing her head against his stomach, and settling back in with her monkey.

 _I’ll take that as a no_ , Yasha chuckled mildly to himself, shifting to get more comfortable against his headboard.

He wasn’t really rushing to get moving anyway, especially when Winter was feeling clingy. It was more often the case than not anymore, although it wasn’t like he was much better. He’d always taken her with him everywhere anyway, but now he couldn’t stand to be in a room without having her nearby. He’d get nervous when she just went around the corner to his bathroom to use the litter box. She was all he had left in the world, and an irrational, childish part of him was scared that if he looked away for just a second too long, she’d be gone too.

With him in constant distress, Winter commenced excessively hanging all over him. She didn’t curl up in the corner and play with her toys anymore; she brought them to him so that they could play together. She also attacked his face and hands with extra grooming licks whenever she had the chance even though he never removed his disguise anymore. He used to wander around the apartment naturally unless he had to go anywhere or they were expecting company, but he didn’t bother anymore; he quietly declined all of Tatiana’s offers to redo the spell if he wanted to remove it. That guy was dead. It would be disrespectful for Yasha to steal his face.

The soft sounds of Tatiana and Mikhail moving around in their bedroom reached him through the wall after a few more minutes. Yasha slumped further down against his pillows, scratching Winter behind the ears. _Maybe if they think I’m still asleep, they’ll leave me alone…_

Literally two seconds later, there was a soft knock on his door.

_Guess not._

<Yeah?> he called quietly. He knew if he didn’t say at least that, whoever it was wouldn’t come in. His guardians absolutely refused to invade his privacy, and he was grateful for it.

Tatiana poked her head inside and smiled gently at him. “Good morning,” she greeted in heavily accented English. She’d been doing that more and more lately, probably believing that if she spoke his native language it would prompt him to speak a little in return. It usually didn’t work, but this was the last day they would see each other until the winter holidays (if they even let him come back here—they hadn’t discussed it yet) so he figured he might as well show how appreciative he was for their kindness.

“Morning,” he replied with a weak smile of his own. To Yasha’s distant satisfaction, Tatiana’s smile grew a few shades brighter.

“May I come in?”

 _It’s too early for this_ , grumbled Yasha inwardly, although he knew it was an excuse. It would always be too early, so he nodded and pushed himself upright. Winter adjusted herself to prop her head up on his knee and observe Tatiana as she moved to perch on the edge of his bed. She didn’t say anything for a minute, petting Winter’s head slowly as she seemed to prepare whatever it was she’d been planning to come in here for.

After a bit, Tatiana looked up and met his eyes. Hers were filled with sorrow but no tears.

“Yasha… _Bucky_ ,” she began, her expression growing even more melancholy when she caught his nearly imperceptible flinch. That name felt like a slap in the face these days. “I know this is hard, but it won’t be forever. This pain will pass. You have the rest of your life ahead of you, and your family will be with you every step of the way.”

Yasha’s eyes dropped to his lap as they began to fill up with tears. He was so _tired_ of crying.

Tatiana wasn’t done, though. “You can’t shut yourself away when you get to school. I’ve let you ignore your friends, I’ve let you pull away from _us_ —but that can’t go on, Bucky.” There was a sort of desperation in her tone, like she was pleading with him. She pulled his hand into hers and waited until he made eye contact before she continued, “Your parents loved you _so_ much. They gave up so many things to make sure you would have the best chance at life they could possibly give you. They wouldn’t want you to close yourself off and forget to live, not after everything you fought so hard to accomplish.”

He wanted to ask what he’d fought for, but the mere thought of speaking so many words at a time was exhausting. All Yasha felt like he did was go along for the ride and do what he was told. Sure, the decision to go to Durmstrang had ultimately been his, but that was the extent of his say in the matter.

His expression must have broadcast his thoughts fairly plainly, because Tatiana’s free hand came up under his chin.

“It doesn’t always seem like much, but just deciding _not_ to give up when everything seems terrible can be a battle in itself.”

Yasha exhaled loudly and gave the tiniest shrug. Was that why he felt so exhausted all the time? Or was it that losing everything and face-planting right into rock-bottom was slowly drowning him?

“I want you to promise me something,” Tatiana told him.

Frowning, Yasha asked, “What’s that?”

“Promise me that you’ll write,” she whispered, cupping his face in both hands and kissing his forehead lightly. It was perhaps the most intimate she’d been with him, and that fact alone was enough to make him want to agree. “Promise me you won’t go off to school and forget we’re here for you.”

Yasha pursed his lips and scrunched up his face to keep from crying, shifting Winter out of his lap to lean forward and wrap Tatiana in a hug.

“I promise,” he murmured, telling himself he wasn’t lying.

“I’ll hold you to that,” warned Tatiana without heat, squeezing him back. When they broke apart, she cupped his face again and smiled. “Natasha will be here soon. I’ll go make breakfast—for you and the precious kitty princess,” she cooed, scratching under Winter’s chin.

“’kay.” Yasha couldn’t help chuckling at the nickname as Tatiana took her leave. It was appropriate, if he was being honest: Winter was the most pampered member of the household—and the little brat was very well aware of it, too.

“Okay,” he repeated quietly to himself, taking a deep breath and holding it for a long moment before letting it out slowly through his teeth. He could do this.

 

***

 

<Shit, who died?> was the first thing Nat said when she entered his room and took in his meager appearance.

Swallowing down both the flare of despair and the cruel retort that edged its way onto his tongue first, Yasha flatly replied, <Nice to see you too.>

Nat didn’t address his tone, but her penetrating gaze didn’t leave him for a second as she sat down primly on the bed and stroked Winter’s fur. <Seriously, though, you look like crap, Yasha. I thought your aunt was just being nice when she said you were sick, but I’m actually starting to believe her.>

He didn’t bother answering, carelessly yanking his hair back into an elastic band and sighing when half of it fell out of the bun at the nape of his neck. He wondered if it would be feasible to chop off his hair in this disguise or if altering the spell would be the only way, but that took _effort_ and he really wasn’t into that right now.

<You’re not planning on going to Hogwarts in _that_ , are you?>

Taking a deep breath to avoid losing his cool, Yasha looked at her in the mirror and shrugged. <What difference does it make?>

Nat scoffed, standing up and moving to stand behind him. She fussed with his hair in silence and then examined him carefully from the top of his increasingly shaggy head, across his dirty three-day-old T-shirt, past his ripped up jeans, and down to the soles of his torn up, three-year-old Converse shoes. Raising an eyebrow, she dryly inquired, <You really have to ask?>

<It’s not that big a deal, Nat,> he sighed, sensing that he was going to lose this battle no matter how much he argued. <We’re just gonna change into robes when we get there anyway.>

<Ah, but you see, the most important part of any introduction is making an _entrance_ ,> she insisted with a wry smirk. <We’re introducing ourselves to the entire Hogwarts population, which means extra care must be taken. Get with the program, Smirnov.>

_Yeah, get with the program, Smirnov._

<So…what? You want me to dress like _that_? > He gestured toward her Durmstrang robes, which he hadn’t cared enough to ask why she was wearing when she came in.

He could hardly believe she was serious when her smirk turned into a broad grin.

<Hell no, no _way_ —>

<You have to admit they’re _very_ upscale compared to what I’ve heard they wear at Hogwarts. >

<They have _fur_. I’m not sweating my balls off just to make a good impression. >

Nat rolled her eyes impatiently. <Then wear the summer one, genius. It’s lighter and has the shorter cloak. Ditch the hat, it’s stupid anyway.>

<Nat, no.>

<Nat, _yes_ ,> she cut him off before he could argue, her eyes flashing dangerously this time. <You’ve been avoiding me for almost two months. I haven’t seen or heard from you since we went shopping. You fucking _owe_ me. >

Yasha opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to think of anything he could use to rebut that and coming up with absolutely nothing. Eventually he capitulated and let his shoulders slump before muttering a pathetic attempt at an agreement. People shouldn’t be allowed to exhaust him before breakfast.

If he thought wearing his Durmstrang uniform was going to be a feat, he had no idea how difficult _finding_ it would be. He hadn’t bothered to straighten up his laundry over the last few weeks; Tatiana had come in and gathered his discarded clothing off the floor for cleaning once a week, and he’d thrown it all in his dresser drawers carelessly every time a clean pile of laundry appeared at the foot of his bed. That meant that everything was a crumpled up, wrinkled mess, shoved into the backs of his drawers where pulling out one thing meant simultaneously pulling out five others. There was a pile almost up to his knees by the time he finally gathered all the components of his summer uniform, which Nat snatched away from him immediately.

<What the fuck, Yasha?> she muttered under her breath, walking right out of his room. With Winter at his heels, Yasha followed her across the apartment into the kitchen like a puppy, where Nat dumped his things on the table and put her hands on her hips. <Tatiana, your nephew’s uniform needs life support.>

When Tatiana saw what she was talking about, she burst into laughter for a minute before turning down the heat on the stove and joining them at the table. <It _is_ pretty terrible, isn’t it? >

Yasha muttered a halfhearted apology and watched while Tatiana pulled out her wand, running it over top of the uniform and muttering an incantation he didn’t recognize. The cloth began to move, straightening out until there wasn’t a wrinkle left and everything looked brand new. The fur was even mended where it had been pulling away from the seams by the end of the previous school year.

Nat thanked Tatiana before shoving his uniform into his arms and waving towards his room. <Go get dressed. We haven’t got all day.>

<Yes, ma’am,> he replied sarcastically, jumping out of the way before she could smack him in the back of the head and hastening to his room lest he anger her further.

Ten minutes later, he stood in front of the mirror looking like an actual human being again. Nat had come in about halfway through the process of pulling on the blood red robes to assist him with his hair, which he insisted he didn’t need only for his protests to fall on deaf ears. (And okay, maybe he _did_ need a little bit of help. That was what happened when he didn’t brush his hair for a week and then people expected him to make an _effort_.) She had gone out to the foyer for a second and come back with a tub of something he’d never seen before, instructing him to sit on the closed toilet seat while she got to work. She’d then run a creamy substance through his hair that was cold against his neck, brushed it out, and parted it down the middle so that it hung in even lengths on the sides of his face.

Now, as he scrutinized himself, he had to admit that he actually looked pretty good. His shoulders were broad enough to fill out the robes and make him look more robust, especially with the cape hanging down from one shoulder like some kind of fairytale prince would have. He’d skipped the hat like Nat suggested, which showed off his shiny dark brown hair where it was soft and wavy on either side of his face, one side tucked behind his ear.

<There,> Nat declared with a satisfied nod. <You look great.>

<It’s always important to look your best when you feel your worst,> recited Yasha in barely more than a whisper, surprising himself. Nat’s expression was confused when he glanced at her in the mirror, so he reluctantly explained, <It’s something my m—my _aunt_ told me once. A long time ago. >

He’d completely forgotten until just now, and he could have kicked himself for not remembering what his mom had said on such a huge day. He’d been eight years old, newly moved to London, and ready to start his first day at his new Muggle school. That was a tough summer, moving away from Brooklyn and Steve and Sarah, leaving behind everything he knew and loved. Going to a different school was the worst part, though; he didn’t know anyone, and he’d liked his old school just fine. He’d cried the night before (not that he told anyone, because he thought only babies cried back then), and his mom and dad kept telling him to stop dragging his feet that morning. When his mom came into his room and saw he wasn’t dressed yet, she automatically went to his closet and picked out his favorite clothes: jeans and a Marvel Comics T-shirt.

“You know what always makes me feel better when I go someplace new?” she’d asked as he got dressed.

“What?”

“Dressing up in something pretty. I’ll take out my nicest dress and best pair of shoes, and I’ll wear my favorite jewelry,” she had confided in him with a conspiratorial wink.

“How does that help?” he’d asked, not getting what the big deal was about wearing fancy clothes.

She’d straightened his shirt out and brushed some of the hair out of his face before bequeathing to him the wisdom, “It’s always important to look your best when you feel your worst.”

He hadn’t really understood what she meant at the time but now, standing in front of his mirror looking like he had his life pulled together when really everything was falling apart? He finally got it.

Nat mercifully didn’t say anything, letting him stare at his reflection a little longer and blink the redness out of his eyes before gently suggesting they go see if breakfast was ready. And if she slipped her hand in his and gave it a small, reassuring squeeze on their way out the door? Well, neither of them would mention it.

 

***

 

King’s Cross was just as busy as it always had been on the magical side of platform nine and three-quarters, with students and their families milling about or running around reuniting with friends they hadn’t seen in a few months. Some of them were already dressed in the familiar robes with their house crests on them while others were in Muggle clothes, likely planning on changing before they arrived at the castle tonight. The Durmstrang students were easily identifiable against the rest, standing in isolated groups wearing the same red robes that Yasha and Nat were. They eyed the Hogwarts students but didn’t even attempt to mingle in most cases, acting as if they might catch a disease or something if they got too close.

For their part, the Hogwarts students didn’t pay them much mind aside from a few curious glances. It had been all over every Wizarding newspaper that Durmstrang had been closed until further notice, so it wasn’t as if they were surprised to see a bunch of the displaced students waiting for the Hogwarts Express. At least they weren’t being assholes about it, which Yasha had come to expect from his classmates at Durmstrang.

He and Nat had Side-Along Apparated with Tatiana and Mikhail straight onto the platform, the latter not wanting to get caught in the crowd on the Muggle side of the barrier. Yasha wasn’t sure how honest that was, especially when Mikhail kept one hand around the wand in his pocket the whole time, but he decided it was probably better not to ask. It would only lead to a conversation he undoubtedly did not want to have, and he’d already been subjected to enough of those today to last him quite some time.

<I’ll take your things to the train,> Mikhail told them after he’d surveyed the platform and seemingly found everything to be all right. <You both stay here with Tatiana.>

<I can get it,> protested Yasha, but Mikhail waved him off.

<It’s fine, let an old man get his exercise.>

Shrugging, Yasha stepped aside with Nat and Tatiana, holding a wriggling Winter in his arms with some difficulty while Mikhail dragged their trunks easily into one of the carriages. She’d gone crazy the second she realized where they were, looking around and taking in all the familiar sights and smells. Yasha wished he could feel the same way, but everything he remembered loving about going to Hogwarts had been covered over by a grey film in his mind’s eye. It was like looking through a fog to see those happy times now, especially since it wasn’t as if he could just walk right back into those memories like he was still the same person. It made seeing all of this again both a miracle and a waking nightmare.

_This wasn’t how it was supposed to be._

<Do you see Jarvis anywhere?> he heard Nat ask. Yasha forced himself to pull his head out of his ass long enough to glance around, but he didn’t see their gangly friend anywhere nearby.

Who he _did_ see made his heart skip a few beats.

Sam Wilson was standing barely ten yards from them, taller than Yasha remembered and with facial hair they hadn’t been capable of growing last time they saw each other. He was speaking animatedly with Peggy, who had always been pretty but had grown into an absolutely stunning young woman, and a muscular blond guy Yasha assumed was Thor since he could only see the guy’s back. Sam shoved him in the shoulder and the three of them burst into laughter before Sam’s eyes drifted away from his companions. They landed on Yasha as he scanned the crowd, and for just a moment he felt himself freeze in fear. He couldn’t breathe or think or feel the beating of his heart—what if he recognized him, what if he just _knew_ , what if he came to greet the new students, what if what if what if—

None of that happened, though. His eyes kept moving like they hadn’t even seen Yasha, and despite his panic about the alternatives, Yasha felt his heart cracking a little more in his chest at _not_ being recognized by one of his closest friends.

 _It’s for the best_ , he told himself firmly. _They wouldn’t know you anymore even if you looked exactly like you did back then. To them, you’re dead. Better start getting used to it._

<Earth to Yasha.>

A sharp tap on his temple brought him out of his miserable contemplation and he looked down to see Nat staring at him like he was crazy. He was probably at least halfway there, all things considered.

<Sorry, thought I saw him,> he lied, clearing his throat awkwardly. He busied himself with adjusting Winter in his arms so that he didn’t have to make eye contact, his cat licking at his face in what Yasha figured was an attempt to ease his stress.

Tatiana seemed to understand what had happened in spite of the fact that she had never seen or met any of his Hogwarts friends before, and she put a hand on his back. <Natasha, would you excuse us for a minute?> she asked politely, waiting for Nat to nod before leading Yasha away from her and the rest of the crowded platform. He vaguely recognized Mikhail speaking with a heavyset man a few yards away who Yasha thought looked familiar, but he paid it no mind as he followed Tatiana.

Once they were safely tucked away behind one of the pillars, she guided him so that his back was to the rest of the platform while she stood facing him worriedly. <You saw someone you know?>

Yasha nodded silently.

<Did they recognize you?>

When he shook his head, she let out a breath neither of them seemed to realize she had been holding. He couldn’t help anxiously inquiring, <Did you think they would?>

<I wasn’t sure,> she admitted, glancing out from behind the pillar to check the time and lowering her voice to a whisper. <We made the changes to your appearance subtle so they wouldn’t attract attention from people who had never seen you in person before. We never expected you to wear this face around people who knew you well.>

<Do you think they’ll see through it?> He could feel the edge of panic rising again.

Taking a deep breath, she cautiously replied, <Not if you’re careful. It’s still been almost three years—you’ve grown a lot since then. Besides, everyone here thinks you d—>

She cut herself off, but Yasha could hear the rest of what she was thinking as if she’d said it aloud: _Besides, everyone here thinks you died_. Even if anybody _did_ believe he looked familiar, they would probably assume they were just seeing ghosts and avoid him to spare themselves the discomfort.

<Everything will be fine,> she told him instead, smiling reassuringly. <You just worry about your classes. And Quidditch! You’re trying out, yes?>

Swallowing, Yasha gave an unsure shrug of his shoulders but Tatiana swatted his arm in annoyance.

<Don’t you shrug at me.>

<Okay, okay, I’ll try out,> he sighed, smiling tersely. <I left my broom at the apartment, though, so I’ll have to borrow one from the school.>

<Well, now, what is the saying? Don’t count your chickens until they hatch?> Tatiana smirked wickedly up at him. <Your broomstick is in your trunk where it _ought_ to have been when you packed last night. You’ll need to put it back to its normal size, but it should be in fine working order when you get there. You write to me and tell me when you get on the team. >

Yasha gaped at her while she spoke, hardly daring to believe his ears. Tatiana and Mikhail had been looking out for him for almost three years now, yet it still surprised him when they did something like this. A surge of affection for his guardians blossomed in his chest, the first _real_ emotion he’d felt aside from pain and misery in weeks, and he pulled Tatiana into a one-armed hug.

<Thank you,> he whispered, hoping it sounded as sincere as he meant it to be. <For everything.>

She returned the embrace, one hand rubbing his back soothingly. <Dear boy, you never have to thank us for giving you the things you deserve. We’re here for you whenever you need us. You know this, yes?>

<I know.> Yasha pulled back, swallowing around the lump in his throat, and nodded. He could feel himself getting too emotional, though, and shut down the floodgates before more came pouring out than he’d bargained for. <Should probably get boarded.>

Smiling in sorrowful understanding, Tatiana merely nodded and followed him back to where they’d left Nat, who had apparently found Jarvis while she was waiting for them to return. She spotted them and said something quick before they were in earshot, and Jarvis turned to grin at them as they approached.

<All right, Yasha?> he asked in his characteristic British accent, although he switched to Russian for Yasha’s benefit. Yasha distantly added that to the list of things no one would recognize: he hadn’t spoken Russian last time he was at Hogwarts either.

<I’m good, Jarvis. You?>

<Very well, thank you. But you’ll never _guess_ who else made it into Hogwarts, > complained Jarvis, his nose scrunching up disdainfully.

There were many people who could invite that kind of reaction from Jarvis, but there was only _one_ person who got the flash of fear in his eyes on top of it.

<Rumlow? Seriously?> groaned Yasha, shaking his head. _This day’s just getting better and better all the time._

<And Rollins,> added Nat, scowling. <I saw them while you guys were gone. You’d think they owned the place the way they were pushing the little ones around.>

<So they acted like they always do,> Yasha sighed, rolling his eyes. Leave it to Rumlow: everyone else here was just trying to mind their own business while he attempted to establish himself as king of the world before they’d begun their first day. <Shit, I was hoping they’d go to Beauxbatons.>

<I’m never _that_ lucky, > mused Jarvis. The great thing about him was that, even when he was at his lowest, he kept his spirits up through a healthy balance of humorous self-deprecation and the fervent belief that everything could be _so_ much worse.

By the time they’d finished verbally abusing Rumlow for daring to stink up the halls of yet another school, the warning horn sounded and Jarvis left them to say goodbye to his family, promising to find their compartment on the train. Nat thanked Tatiana and Mikhail, who’d returned just in time, and boarded without Yasha to give him an opportunity to say his own goodbyes.

<Now, you remember what we talked about this morning, yes? And your promise?> prodded Tatiana, fussing over his cloak in a manner reminiscent of his mom. It made him smile, bitter and weak as it was.

<I remember,> he vowed. He let her pull him into a hug before turning to Mikhail, who he knew too well to expect some grand show of affection.

True to form, Mikhail shook his hand firmly with a kind smile. He was a man of very few words, and it appeared he had none for this occasion; everything he wanted to say was in his expression anyway.

After another hug from Tatiana, Yasha stepped up into the carriage and closed the door, waving out the window once as the train jerked to life. He didn’t stay by the window to watch them disappear from view. He didn’t get misty eyed and think about the next time he would see them. He didn’t feel much of anything except the gnawing emptiness inside him as he left his guardians behind and went in search of his and Nat’s compartment, Winter and her monkey curled tight against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The line about looking your best when you feel your worst is a quote from "Political Animals."


	2. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, the title of this chapter refers to the idiom, not the play by Tennessee Williams. 
> 
> I'd just like to say that I had this chapter floating around in my head before I started _writing_ this series, so I'm very excited to finally share it with you guys. Enjoy!

Everything was so green this time of year outside the city: pastures, trees, distant mountains as they traveled further into the country. Animals were out grazing peacefully, and Yasha watched them as the train sped past, wondering idly what it must be like to have a life consisting of just pondering which side of a field you’d get your food from that day. There was no reason for a cow to worry about what was going on in the world—it was a _cow_ , what the fuck did it care? There would always be pastures and other cows to hang out with. The rest of the world could go to hell and they’d be just fine.

It wasn’t so easy to be human. Yasha had never envied animals, but watching those cows and then looking down to see Winter grooming herself, content in the knowledge that he would always look after her, he felt a twinge of jealousy. At least he _did_ until Winter looked up at him, cocked her head curiously, and clawed her way up his chest to groom his face. Then he remembered she had to put up with his bullshit, and that was more of a chore than anyone, human or otherwise, really needed.

<If you let her mess up your hair, I’m going to hex you into next week, Yasha,> scolded Nat mildly, not bothering to turn away from the window. The view was familiar to him, but he kept forgetting she’d never seen this before.

Rolling his eyes, Yasha just muttered, <Yes, ma’am,> before promptly ignoring her and letting Winter do whatever the fuck she wanted. He honestly didn’t care if he showed up to Hogwarts looking like he was a homeless person and would have been perfectly content to wear his crappy jeans from before, changing on the train like normal people. (He didn’t classify the Durmstrang idiots who had also shown up in their fancy robes as _normal_ by any stretch of the imagination.)

<Where is Jarvis?> huffed Nat in mock irritation, glancing out at the students passing by their compartment. <You’re no fun today. I need _someone_ to talk to. >

<Maybe he found someone we know,> Yasha sighed with a shrug.

<That or he found Rumlow.>

<Even he’s not stupid enough to pull something on the train,> reasoned Yasha, shaking his head. <He won’t risk getting in trouble till he knows the lay of the land.>

<You sound awfully confident about that,> observed Nat, eyebrows raised.

He just shrugged again. <He knows he doesn’t have any teachers letting him get away with shit anymore. He has to play it safe now.>

Nat was silent a little longer before shrugging one shoulder and settling back in her seat again. <I guess that makes sense. He should still be here by now, though.>

Yasha nodded, looking back out the window and hugging Winter a little tighter than he already had been. Jarvis wasn’t the only one who was _supposed_ to be here and wasn’t, although at least he’d gotten on the train.

Becca would have been eleven a couple of weeks ago. Closing his eyes, Yasha bit the inside of his cheek and let himself imagine for just a minute what that would have been like, starting his sixth year while she was going into her first. She played a big game, but she would have been a nervous wreck that morning. Their mom would have dressed her in her favorite outfit to make her feel better, and they would have gotten to the station to find all the other first years looking just as anxious. She would have stuck like glue to Yasha because that’s what she always did when she was uneasy about something. He would have teased her about it, calling her a baby and tugging her hair and pretending that he wouldn’t let her sit with him and his friends to rile her up. She would have known he was kidding, though, and he would have helped his dad load her things into the same compartment with his while she held onto Winter for him.

Clint would have groaned and asked why they were babysitting, only for Sam to smack him in the shoulder and roll his eyes. Steve would have let Becca sit next to him, putting her by the window so she could see the view her first time and to avoid getting motion sickness the way he was sometimes wont to do. Yasha would have sat on the other side of him, close enough to keep an eye on Becca while still providing the illusion of giving her some independence. He would have let her keep Winter, though; playing with her would help take Becca’s mind off things like the Sorting Ceremony and possibly being put in a different house from his.

He wondered what house she would have gotten into. She was smart as a whip—he’d caught her reading a dictionary when he went home after his fourth year, but he couldn’t figure out whether it was because she _wanted_ to or if it was just due to boredom. Unlike him, she’d loved Muggle school and was actually a little disappointed to be leaving even though she was excited to learn about new things. She could be crafty when she wanted to be but really wasn’t ambitious, at least not in the same way their mom was, so he didn’t see her being in Slytherin. Becca was also more of a _look before you leap_ kind of person, so Gryffindor was definitely out. She was a kind friend to the few she’d had in London, although she’d never had to pull them out of fights the way he’d spent his childhood doing, so would the hat put her in Hufflepuff? He wasn’t sure. He kept leaning closer to Ravenclaw; he could even picture her in her little robes with the blue and bronze crest on them—

_Aaaaaaand that’s enough of that_.

Yasha mentally shook himself, blinking his eyes open and sealing the floodgates once more. There was no use dwelling on what _could_ have been or what _should_ have been. There was only this, and the faster he came to terms with that, the less difficult life would be.

_Tatiana made it sound so easy_ , he grumbled internally. How was he supposed to move on and live his life when the shadows of the dead were looming all around him—including his own?

A furry paw smacked him on his cheek, drawing his attention to the fact that he was almost crushing Winter to his chest now. Grimacing, he released his hold on her with a whispered apology, and she licked his face one more time before hopping down to the seat beside him and going back to playing with the toy mouse Nat had gotten for her in Moscow before everything went to hell. She left her favorite toy, her stuffed monkey, in his lap where he could idly fiddle with it instead.

Nat had been unnaturally quiet, so he glanced up and nearly groaned to see that she was watching him silently. She probably had been the entire time, which only made it worse. Things had been easier when he was slowly going insane in the private sanctuary of his own bedroom, the door closed so no one else had to bear witness. Maybe going back to school at all—being surrounded by all those people, having _responsibilities_ —hadn’t been such a good idea. Maybe he wasn’t ready yet and should have taken a year off, but he already _knew_ the Petrovs wouldn’t have gone for that. Tatiana had told him not to shut himself away, and skipping school would have been doing exactly that. No, they would have forced him kicking and screaming onto that train even if he’d had the energy to kick and scream.

Now he wouldn’t have the luxury of being invisible anymore. He could tell by the look on her face that Nat wasn’t going to make it easy, not by a long shot.

<So we haven’t caught up yet,> she eventually prompted, crossing her legs and arms in her typical no-nonsense, _Don’t Bullshit Me_ manner.  <We covered your pathetic hygiene and fashion sense, so we’ll check that off the list.>

<Nat…>

<What extra courses are you taking?>

Blinking, Yasha shook his head and frowned. That was not the question he’d been expecting. In hindsight, he probably should have known better. Natasha wasn’t one to pry, whether she thought it was for your own good or not, so she would probably feed him a bunch of snarky remarks about his attitude and his disappearance for the second half of the summer but she wouldn’t outright _ask_. She’d let him decide if he wanted to tell her. The thought made the emptiness in his chest warm up just a little.

<Uh… Care of Magical Creatures and Divination,> he answered after a moment’s thought, trying to remember what they’d put in the return letter to Hogwarts. He hadn’t really been in the right frame of mind to choose classes, so Tatiana had gently prodded him to tell her what he’d taken when he was in his third year and signed him up for the same ones.

_I should probably get her a really good Hanukkah present this year_ , he mused.

<Divination?> Nat snorted. <Tell me you took that for a laugh.>

Yasha shrugged uncomfortably. <What’s wrong with that?>

Rolling her eyes, Nat slowed her speech as if speaking to a small child. <It’s all just a bunch of crap. No one can see the future. If they could, a lot of shitty things wouldn’t happen. It’s a scam.>

Yasha clenched his teeth and took a deep breath through his nose to stop himself from snapping at her, but it was a near thing nonetheless. His mind was vacillating between the compartment and a dream about a house filled with flames and melting bodies and a chest exploding—

<Sometimes things can’t be stopped anyway even when you _know_ they’re gonna happen, > he hissed, looking out the window so she couldn’t see his face.

<So you’re saying you _actually_ believe in palm readings and crystal balls and—oh, what’s the other one? Tea leaves! You believe in that… _stuff_? > Yasha could tell she altered her phrasing on the last word, undoubtedly to avoid pissing him off any further than she was realizing she already had, but her tone was no less skeptical.

Swallowing, he copped out and hedged, <I’m saying that’s why I’m taking the class, to find out more. It’s interesting even if it’s not real.>

Nat hummed noncommittally, staring at him for a few more moments before the quiet was interrupted by the compartment door sliding open to reveal Jarvis, who was grinning from ear to ear.

<You won’t believe who I fo—>

<Winter, no!>

The second the door was open wide enough, his cat was gone like she’d been shot out of a gun. Yasha practically tripped over himself in his haste to catch her, roughly shoving Jarvis out of the way and racing through the carriage. There were other students in the hall, though, and he quickly lost sight of her tail up ahead.

Yasha seriously thought he might be having a heart attack right then and there. If he keeled over and died right in the middle of the carriage, he wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised or, a small voice in the back of his head admitted, disappointed. Winter had _never_ run off like that; the last time he didn’t know where she was, she’d been a kitten during his first year, and thankfully she’d managed to find Steve instead of something nasty. This was nothing like that, though. This was a _train_ —she could get trampled by students who didn’t see her underfoot or fall out of the door between carriages or get lost in a compartment and end up going back to London with the train after they got off or stolen by another student or any number of things and it would be _all his fault because he’d fucking let her go_!

He should have held on to her. He should never have let her sit on the seat—he should have kept her _in his lap_ where he could keep her _safe_.

Yasha stumbled down the hall, his eyes darting this way and that as he continued searching frantically; his vision was growing more and more unreliable as the tears built in his panic. Winter’s stuffed monkey was dangling limply from his hand, just as useless as he was.

Someone was calling his name behind him, but he paid them no mind.

Just when he thought he wasn’t going to be able to take it, that he was going to shatter like glass in the middle of the hall, he heard a familiar purr and hushed voices and Yasha sprinted to the next compartment to see Winter in someone else’s arms. He had to grab onto the open door to keep himself on his feet, his legs suddenly turning to jelly beneath him in his relief. A tall, muscular blond guy was holding Winter while she happily, affectionately chewed on his fingers. He just barely stopped himself from shouting at the stranger to _give him his fucking cat_ only to realize it wasn’t a stranger at all.

Steve’s blue eyes stared at him where he was panting in the doorway, and Yasha gaped back in disbelief. His first thought was that he was mistaken, that this _couldn’t_ be Steve—he was a fucking _brick house_! Steve Rogers was a skinny kid with asthma, not a tank with arms nearly as wide around as Yasha’s torso. But there was no denying it when he noticed, in the corner of his eye, that the compartment was filled with his former friends: Sam, Clint, T’Challa, Peggy, and Thor were all there. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that Thor had hair longer than his own, which meant that who he thought was Thor back on the platform was actually _Steve_.

Who was staring back at him as if he’d seen a ghost.

_Holy fuck._

Yasha’s mouth moved, but he’d been struck dumb and words refused to come out.

No one in the compartment spoke until somebody crowded into the doorway next to him and sighed in Russian, <Oh good, you found her.>

“This your cat?” Sam’s voice asked, his tone unequivocally suspicious. Steve’s arms tightened around Winter, who nudged the side of his face playfully with her nose as if she didn’t sense the tension in the compartment.

It suddenly hit him that it was never _Yasha’s_ appearance they needed to be worried about someone seeing through: it was _Winter_ who would give away the game. She was a little bigger, but otherwise she looked exactly the same as she had the day he left Hogwarts for good.

_And the little brat went running straight for Steve just like she did last time, the traitor._

Slowly, so as not to draw attention to the motion, he slipped the stuffed monkey in his right hand behind his leg where the rest of the compartment’s inhabitants wouldn’t see it. Maybe they could make this work somehow with Winter—plenty of cats looked similar to others, after all, and she didn’t have a collar to expose her name—but if they saw the monkey his parents had given her for her first Christmas as a member of the family, it would be too much.

He could feel Nat staring at him for a second before she switched to English and explained, “Sorry, Yasha doesn’t speak much English, but yes, that _is_ his cat.”

Steve’s eyes darted back to his face, narrowing slightly as he stood up and— _holy shit, he’s taller than me!_ It was only an inch or two, but Steve fucking Rogers was actually _taller_ than him.

_Maybe I’m dreaming,_ he thought halfheartedly. _Maybe this is all a dream and I’m gonna wake up in my bed at Hogwarts, in my third year, and this fucked up rollercoaster from hell that is my life never actually happened._

If that was the case, however, it became apparent that he certainly wasn’t going to wake up anytime soon. Steve stared down at him, and Yasha was helpless to do more than gaze right back. His face was exactly the same as it had been before, if slightly more angular than when they were kids; _his_ jaw didn’t _need_ magical assistance in being sharp enough to open a can of soup like Yasha’s did. His blue eyes were examining every angle of Yasha’s face as if he was looking for something, and Yasha swallowed hard under the scrutiny before reaching out the hand that wasn’t hiding anything toward Winter.

The furry brat looked over at him and meowed loudly, reaching out her paws. Very slowly, Steve held her out and Yasha immediately plucked her out of his arms. He still felt like he could potentially die of a heart attack at any moment, but at least the knot in his stomach that had been pulled tight the second she ran out of the compartment without him had loosened enough to let him breathe.

If he thought she was going to make this easy for him, though, he was sorely mistaken.

Winter settled herself on his shoulder for all of two seconds before scratching at his arm for her monkey. He tried to ignore it, really he did. But when Steve, Nat, and fucking everyone else was looking at him like he was doing something wrong, the choice was taken out of his hands. Sighing, he handed her the toy; Steve’s eyes blew so wide it would have been comical in any other situation. A couple of the others exchanged a puzzled glance behind him as Winter curled up against Yasha’s chest and poked her head up under his jaw the way she always did. Because hey, if she was broadcasting the fact that either he was _alive_ or some motherfucker had stolen his cat, she may as well do it right.

Steve’s expression was a mixture of grief, confusion, and something that looked impossibly like hope. When he opened his mouth, Yasha could see his lips beginning to form _that name_ , and he snapped out of his trance like someone had hit him with a Bludger.

<Thanks,> he muttered quickly, making a break for it without a backwards glance. He heard Nat say something, probably translating and trying to excuse his behavior, but then he was out of earshot and fleeing back into their compartment where it was safe.

Of course, he wasn’t expecting Jarvis, Wanda, Pietro, and Skye to watch him nearly have a meltdown as he threw himself into the closest seat.

Yasha sighed. _Yup. Should’ve stayed home._

<I’m so sorry!> exclaimed Jarvis, wringing his hands with a contrite frown. <I didn’t realize trains bothered her so much or I wouldn’t have left the door open.>

Yasha shook his head and muttered, <It’s not your fault, don’t worry.> He deliberately didn’t add, _I just have a cat who apparently wants me to socialize more, that’s all._

A cat who also looked inordinately pleased with herself as she snuggled closer to his stomach and settled in for a nap. _She so knows what she did._

Natasha appeared a moment later, which thankfully forestalled any questions about his summer. (He was glad to see that the Maximoffs and Skye were going to Hogwarts as well, _really_ , but he could have used a spare minute to prepare.) When he saw the satisfied smirk on her face, though, his stomach hopped into his throat.

<What?> he grunted.

<Oh, nothing,> she waved him off, taking a seat between him and Skye. <I just didn’t know you swung that way, that’s all.>

Blinking, he blurted out, <Wait, _what_?! >

Nat shrugged. <The way you were making eyes at tall, blond, and sexy? Dead giveaway, Yasha.>

_I wonder if they’d let me out and run me over with the train…_

<That’s not what that was,> he denied immediately. Skye leaned around Nat to look him in the eye.

<You know we’d be cool with it, right? I mean, my dad is bi and I’ve got a cousin who’s gay—it’s really no big deal,> she tried to console him with an understanding smile that just made him want to bang his head against the wall even more.

<Thanks, I appreciate that,> he began, trying to figure out how to say this tactfully. <But seriously, that’s not what was happening. He just…looked familiar, that’s all. Couldn’t place where I’d seen him before.>

<Did you figure it out?> inquired Wanda. Yasha shook his head.

<No. Not the same guy.> _None of us are._

The others nodded with varying degrees of sympathy before Pietro changed the subject to Quidditch, which he’d apparently been attempting to convince Jarvis to try out for when Yasha interrupted. The idea of Edwin Jarvis on a broomstick was admittedly hilarious, especially given the fact that he usually carried himself more like an old English butler than an athlete, but Pietro refused to be put off so easily. Yasha let the conversation ebb and flow around him after that without taking part, stroking Winter’s fur and waiting for his heart rate to return to baseline. He was happy not to be the center of attention anymore, ignoring the way Nat’s eyes didn’t leave his face for a good ten minutes before she focused on everyone else and gave him a break.

_This is gonna be one long-ass school year._

 

***

 

The train arrived in Hogsmeade at the usual time, and it was already dark when Yasha reluctantly tucked Winter into her cage with treats and toys to follow the others outside. They were still wearing their red Durmstrang robes, as were about forty other students; their letters hadn’t said to replace them with the usual black, so Yasha assumed they would be fine in these. It wasn’t like they were actual Hogwarts students anyway. They would probably be thrown in one of the house dormitories, given classes, and tolerated until they were sent back to Durmstrang whenever the hellhole reopened.

It was funny in a completely humorless way: Yasha had gotten everything he wanted in going back to Hogwarts, but he’d lost everything else in exchange. Part of him couldn’t help wondering if this was some kind of karma-fueled cosmic punishment for being selfish and wishing things were different when he should have been happy with what he had and been done with it.

The idea was beginning to seem increasingly plausible when they’d barely been outside five seconds before the familiar cadences of Rumlow’s voice reached them, and Yasha rolled his eyes in exasperation. _One day, just for one day I’d love to catch a break. Is that too much to ask?_

“What a dump. I mean, seriously, this is the best they can do? Bunch of hicks, man, I’m telling you,” he was saying to Rollins, sounding even more pompous than usual. Most of his normal cronies were nowhere to be seen, which probably meant they had either cultivated some sense (doubtful) or got sent to Beauxbatons instead (thank God).

It was all Yasha could do to keep his hackles from rising when he wasn’t even supposed to have understood what the asshole said. What the fuck did he know? They couldn’t even _see_ the town in this light, and the castle was just as impressive as Durmstrang in the distance, if not more so. He knew Rumlow was going to be a pain in the ass about pretty much everything for the foreseeable future, but he’d hoped on the train that they would be able to make it through at least one day before he was pissing and moaning.

_It’s gotta be karma._

Not everyone shared his inhibitions, though, and he heard Steve’s (now much _deeper)_ voice over the crowd retorting, “If it’s not _good enough_ for you, maybe you should try someplace else.”

_Some things never change_ , Yasha mused wryly, trying to ignore the niggling fear in the pit of his stomach. Steve was big enough now to handle himself in a fight despite the instinctive sense of urgency Yasha felt to step between the two of them before it came to blows, but Rumlow knew dark magic like the back of his hand. He’d been at the top of their Dark Arts class, Schmidt’s personal favorite (which was saying a lot since the bastard hated _everyone_ ), and more than one student had been sent to the infirmary after he was finished with target practice—or, as he so politely referred to it, _studying_. The image of Steve lying on the ground with blood pouring from a gash across his chest flashed behind Yasha’s eyelids when he blinked, and he thought he might actually be sick.

Rumlow turned back a few feet away from Yasha, Nat, and the others to sneer (up) at Steve where he was standing underneath one of the lanterns with his friends. “Guess you don’t read much, huh, killer? Wasn’t exactly a choice.”

Steve quirked an eyebrow, but it was Peggy who scoffed, “Yes, it must be _terrible_ not being able to go back to your own school. Were you in the psychotic terrorist class, or was that too difficult for you?”

There was a snort beside Yasha, and he glanced over to see Nat smirking while Jarvis was actually covering his mouth so no one could see his grin. Wanda was looking the other way as if she had no idea what was going on; Pietro was the only one of them willing to convey his amusement outright.

“You think something’s funny over there, smart ass?” Rumlow growled at Pietro, who shrugged innocently.

“I see many funny things right now,” he replied mildly. Yasha turned his laugh into a cough at the last minute, although from the venom in Rumlow’s gaze, it probably wasn’t all that successful.

<Oh, you too, huh, Smirnov?> Rumlow turned his back on Steve’s group as if they didn’t matter and stalked closer, eyes set on Yasha. Their relationship hadn’t been great since the day Yasha had accidentally thrown him against a wall to keep him from cursing Jarvis, but hey, shit happened.

<I’m sorry?> he asked with feigned innocence, cocking his head to the side. Rumlow smirked at him.

<Think you’re cute, huh?>

<Only when Natasha makes me dress up.>

He didn’t know where the sass had come from—Rumlow seemed to inspire it naturally—but he really should’ve expected the shove to his chest. It sent him stumbling back a few steps anyway.

What he _didn’t_ expect was for Rumlow to be lifted off his feet and slammed up against the side of the train so hard it shook the carriage, Steve’s hands wrapped tight around his robes and wrinkling the red fabric. Rollins drew his wand but lowered it right back down again when he saw Clint’s leveled at his face. 

“You’re new, so maybe you don’t get how things work,” Steve growled, his face red with anger. “You wanna be a bully, take it someplace else. That shit doesn’t fly here.”

“Steve, man, come on,” called Sam. He sounded exasperated from how many times he’d seen things like this in the past; Yasha was intimately familiar with the feeling.

Steve ignored him as Rumlow choked out, “Whoa there, big guy. ‘S nothing personal—“ The rest of his sentence was cut off by Steve shaking him once, _hard_.

“It kinda looked personal,” he countered, staring him down.

Yasha didn’t know what made him do it. Maybe it was just a knee-jerk reaction or ancient programming that had been set in his very bones since before he could remember. Maybe he’d finally just lost his marbles. Whatever it was, he stepped forward and put a tentative hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Steve, stop.”

The blond twitched and turned his head to look down at him with furrowed brows, the anger beginning to drain out of his face.

_Shit, Russian. Use Russian._ <This douchebag’s not worth getting in trouble over,> he continued with a weak smirk. As soon as Skye translated for him, Steve let out a breathless chuckle before unceremoniously dropping Rumlow back onto his feet. The latter shot him a dirty look, and a worse one at Yasha, but apparently decided against doing anything else to ignite the Gryffindor’s ire and stalked off with Rollins in his wake instead.

“Nice guy,” mumbled Steve under his breath, glancing back to Yasha once he was gone.

For a second, he wondered if Steve was going to say anything about his intercession before he remembered that _stop_ was a pretty universal word and Sam had said his name already, which gave Yasha an excuse for knowing it. He hadn’t done anything too suspicious, at least not yet. _Get your crazy ass back under control or we’re toast._

Seeming to sense his discomfort, Nat appeared at his elbow and smirked. “Rumlow’s bark is worse than his bite.”

“I beg to differ,” grunted Jarvis disdainfully. Yasha personally agreed.

“Thanks for the help,” she continued over top of him, “but really, we can handle him.”

Steve frowned. “You shouldn’t _have_ to.”

_Oh yeah, definitely same old Steve. Protector of the innocent and defender of pretty much everyone else._

“You’re cute,” laughed Nat, shaking her head. “But you obviously haven’t met the rest of the clan.”

“Are they a bunch of bullies, too?”

She took a deep breath, a tiny frown creasing her forehead, before she slowly explained, “Durmstrang is a place for the strong. Sometimes you have to do things you aren’t proud of to survive like that. It changes some people.”

The others approached from where they’d been staying out of the way by the lamps, and Sam inquired incredulously, “You deal with shit like that all the time?”

“From the very first day,” confirmed Skye, shaking her head in disgust. “First year sucks.”

“I’ll bet,” murmured Steve. Yasha had a feeling they were both remembering the epic series of altercations between him and one Gilmore Hodge in their first year.

Peggy stepped up beside Steve, and Yasha noticed her slipping a slim hand into his to lace their fingers together. _Oh. So it’s like that, huh? Get it, Rogers._

“It doesn’t look like it gets much easier,” she observed sympathetically.

Shrugging impassively, Nat replied, “It has its ups and downs. Some of us have dealt with it longer than others, though.” She nudged Yasha lightly with her elbow.

Steve’s gaze automatically shifted back to him, that look from before flashing momentarily across his face. “How long have you—I mean,” he cut himself off, looking to Nat when he remembered Yasha wouldn’t understand him, “how long has he been at Durmstrang?”

It was evident that he was trying not to sound too eager as he asked, but he failed miserably and Nat’s eyebrows rose a fraction in interest.

It suddenly dawned on Yasha exactly why she was speaking English: _so he couldn’t interrupt._

“He started…when? Middle of our third year?” She turned to check with Jarvis even though Yasha knew she was _damn well aware_ of when he’d first arrived at Durmstrang. Her memory was like a steel trap: once it went in, no matter how much you wanted to take it back, it never fell out.

It was his own damn fault, though. He should have known Nat would never have fallen for his halfhearted insistence that he’d thought he knew Steve and reacted so strongly only to find that he had no clue who the guy was. Couple that with his stupid decision to keep Steve from pummeling Rumlow into the dirt and it was no wonder she was trying to use this brilliant opportunity to investigate. It wasn’t her style to pry into his business, especially when she could tell it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about, but that didn’t mean she didn’t occasionally find subtle ways around him when she was worried. It should probably have comforted him as a testament to how much she cared and wanted to protect him, but instead it was just reigniting his anxiety.

“The middle?” Steve practically demanded, clearing his throat before continuing more nonchalantly, “Most people don’t switch schools in the middle of the year, right?”

“He was homeschooled,” Jarvis interjected after meeting Yasha’s eyes for a moment. “I hate to cut the conversation short, but I think we’re meant to be leaving now?”

Sure enough, the first years were gone and most of the other students had begun making their way towards the carriages that would carry them up to the school. Yasha held his breath to avoid sighing in relief, but Nat and Steve both looked like they were just about ready to smack Jarvis for his intervention.

Yasha could’ve kissed him.

The two groups fell in with the rest of their classmates, silently working their way through the throng waiting to get a carriage. They were just a few feet away when Yasha, thinking he was home-free, saw movement out of the corner of his eye as T’Challa stepped up beside him.

<I believe I met your uncle at the station in London,> he commented in fluent Russian that Yasha _had no fucking clue he could actually speak_. He’d also grown taller and had a line of facial hair shadowing his jaw, but he was wearing the same fang around his neck that he’d had when they first met.  <He works for the Russian Ministry, right?>

<Yes,> Yasha choked out. He wasn’t sure what else to say, so he let T’Challa take the reins.

<He and my father are good friends.>

That explained why he thought he’d recognized who Mikhail was speaking to earlier. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Yasha inquired, <Who’s your father? Maybe I’ve met him.>

A pause. <He works for the Wakandan government.>

_So he still hasn’t told anyone. Got it._

Yasha mercifully didn’t have time to figure out what the hell to respond with as they approached the carriages. Nat stiffened beside him, staring up at the front where a horse would have been, and it took him a moment to realize she was able to see the thestrals pulling the carts. Yasha had never been able to see them himself since the reptilian, winged horses were only visible to those who had seen someone die with their own eyes (in real life, not movies—he’d tried that), but he remembered reading about them in his textbook for Care of Magical Creatures.

T’Challa and Clint had always been able to see them and didn’t visibly react anymore, clamoring up into the carriage without a second thought. Thor and Sam piled in next, but Steve hesitated just a moment before holding out a hand to help Peggy, who rolled her eyes but accepted nonetheless.

_What a gentleman,_ Yasha would have teased him if they were still friends. Against his better judgment, he didn’t bother hiding the slight smirk he got from watching until Steve glanced back at him just as their carriage pulled away from the station.

As soon as they were out of hearing distance and the others were concentrating on climbing into their own carriage, Yasha rounded on Nat with a furious expression. <What the fuck was that about?> he demanded, narrowing his eyes when she appeared entirely unmoved by his display of irritation.

<Just being friendly, Yasha,> she shrugged, moving to step around him. He grabbed her arm and stopped her, though, not in the mood for this shit.

<You know what I’m talking about.>

“You guys coming?” called Skye, forgetting to say it in Russian.

<Just a second,> answered Nat, her eyes never once leaving Yasha’s. After glaring at each other for a minute, she let her shoulders sag a bit and whispered, <You looked at him like you’d seen a ghost, Yasha.>

<And I told you _why_ ,> he shot back immediately.

Nat snorted. <And I’ve told you before that you’re a terrible liar. You know you don’t have to tell me everything, but you don’t have to lie to me either. When you lie, I start thinking there’s a _reason_. If this guy is bad news—  >

<No, Nat, just…no.> The very idea of Steve Rogers being some kind of troublemaker—well, aside from the well-meaning type—was laughable. If he told her that, though, it would be admitting that they’d met before, not that she didn’t seem to already have that part worked out. Sighing, he breathed, <It’s nothing like that.>

<But you can’t tell me what it _is_ like, > she deduced. Her voice was even, but the disappointment was visible in her eyes.

Trailing his fingers down her arm to take her hand, Yasha shook his head apologetically. <I’m sorry,> he began, but Nat cut him off abruptly with a wave of her hand.

<Don’t apologize to me, Yasha. I get it,> she reassured him with a small yet sincere smile. He felt her squeeze his hand. <We’ve all got our secrets.>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are currently asking yourself why the situation with Winter was resolved so quickly... Strap in, because it's gonna be a bumpy ride. 3:)


	3. Bittersweet Reception

<This place is _huge_! >

<Beautiful.>

<Durmstrang has nothing on this,> Pietro agreed with Skye and his sister, all three of them gawking up at the castle in obvious awe. Jarvis and Nat were more reserved, but Yasha could tell they were just as impressed.

To Yasha, it felt a little like coming home, but there was still something missing that kept him from relaxing into the bliss of arrival the way he used to years ago. It was more akin to returning home after a long absence only to find that there was no one waiting to welcome you when you arrived. Perhaps it was simply residual unease from everything that had transpired on the train, or maybe everything else outside of the school had changed so much that even this was impacted, but the castle didn’t seem as warm and inviting as it once did. Sure, it was a sight better than Durmstrang, which had always filled him with dread from his arrival to his departure, but it just wasn’t the same.

He plastered a smile on his face regardless, though, determined not to ruin the experience for the others as the carriages pulled up into the courtyard and rolled to a halt. They disembarked, moving toward the stairs, when Yasha saw Steve, Sam, and Peggy huddled together just inside the doors whispering to one another. Sam’s expression was uncomfortable to say the least, while Steve looked almost desperate; Peggy was still holding his hand, speaking firmly as she ran her free hand soothingly up and down his arm. In another life, Yasha would have made a beeline over there to see what was happening. Instead he averted his gaze and followed his own group into the entrance hall.

It was exactly as Yasha remembered it, if a little smaller, although he had a feeling that had more to do with _his_ size than the castle’s. He remembered walking up the same steps and stopping in front of the Great Hall for the first time, right where the other students were currently filing in to join their houses and wait for the Sorting Ceremony to begin. He recalled passing through the door to the right of the Great Hall more times than he could count to go back to the common room after a long day or pick up Winter to go with him when he had plans with Steve or their other friends. There was the grand staircase that led up to his classes, a scene of much laughter or dismay depending on the day.

His eyes fell on the spot where he, Steve, and T’Challa had been sitting when his professors came to take him away one last time.

<You’re awfully quiet today, Yasha,> a soft voice observed, and Yasha forcibly removed his mind from the past to see that Wanda had edged up closer to him since they entered. Her expression was calm, but her eyes were concerned.

Smiling a little, he was only half lying when he responded, <It’s a lot to take in.>

Wanda hummed in agreement, not pushing the subject any further. It had taken a long time for him to consider her a friend, not because of anything to do with her personality but because she was so _quiet_. She rarely spoke to anyone but her brother at first, and even then it was in Sokovian rather than English or Russian, which he couldn’t understand. She was also a year older, which meant they rarely saw each other except outside of classes, and even that was hit or miss. She was extraordinarily kind, though, and Yasha had come to appreciate her quiet contentment just as much as Nat’s snarky remarks and jagged edges. There were days when he’d needed that stillness; a small part of him had a feeling there would be more of those days now than ever before.

<Do you like it here?> he inquired softly, knowing it would probably be difficult for her to acclimate to a new environment so quickly.

She thought about the question for a minute before shrugging her shoulders slightly and shooting him a half-smile. <It is beautiful, much nicer than Durmstrang, but… It’s different.>

<That’s for sure.>

Huffing a laugh, she continued, <But I think it will be good for us. The people here seem nice.>

<Yeah,> he mused softly, glancing around at the students milling about in the entrance hall, many of whom he was beginning to recognize. Familiar faces were so much older now, but he could still see the kids they used to be underneath. He wondered if they would be able to see the same in him if he removed his disguise, or if he would look just as dead inside as he was supposed to be on the outside.

“Returning students, inside the Great Hall,” called a familiar authoritative voice. Yasha turned to see Professor May framed in the enormous doorway, looking for all the world the same as she had the last time he’d seen her.

_If there was ever a woman less likely to get laughter lines…_

“Durmstrang students,” she continued in the same tone, her eyes lingering on the groups of red robes sporadically placed around the entrance hall. “You’ll wait out here to be sorted after the first years.”

Yasha felt his eyes widen in confusion. _Sorted?_

He was apparently not the only person who felt that way as he heard Rumlow scoff across the entrance hall, “Why do we need to get sorted? This is just temporary, right?”

May raised an unimpressed eyebrow and answered, “Until further notice, you are all _Hogwarts_ students, and all Hogwarts students are sorted into houses.” She didn’t bother waiting for what would undoubtedly be yet another sarcastic retort before disappearing back inside the Great Hall with the returning students who were filtering in.

“Great,” Rollins grumbled, folding his arms over his chest.

“Guess they’re trying to make us feel _right at home_ ,” agreed Rumlow with a sarcastic roll of his eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Peggy reassured him, her voice practically dripping in disdain as she and the others strode past on their way inside. “I’m sure they’ll be able to find a place even for _you_.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’ve got a hell of a mouth on you for a _dame_ , Queen Victoria?” mocked Rumlow, positively _leering_.

Steve bristled and started to move toward him, but Peggy stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Steve, please don’t feed the trolls.”

It looked for a moment like Steve would argue, pausing in the middle of the entrance hall until he reluctantly obeyed and started moving again.

Which, of course, meant Rumlow thought he won.

“There ya go, be a good boy, _Steve_. The lady knows how to wrestle all on her own,” he snickered. “I could even show her a few moves if she’s interested.”

There went that instinct again: Yasha took a step forward at the same time as Steve whirled around, fury in his eyes. Peggy, however, took the situation in hand and strode calmly up to Rumlow as if he wasn’t a total sack of shit.

“What’s your name?” she asked primly, not rising to his answering sneer.

“Brock Rumlow, your majesty.”

“Well, Brock Rumlow, I hate to tell you there’s a stain on your right leg. It’s rather embarrassing, in fact.”

Frowning, he took the bait and glanced down just in time for Peggy to land a right hook against his cheek and send him sprawling across the floor. There was just about no one left in the entrance hall to see what had happened except Durmstrang students, Steve, Peggy, Sam, T’Challa, and Clint—who was laughing hysterically at the image of Rumlow spread-eagled on the ground, his robes and cloak filthy from the dirt students had tracked all over the floor.

He wasn’t the only one: Yasha thought it was probably a direct result of the pressure cooker his emotions had been shoved into over the last few weeks, but he _completely lost his shit_. He vaguely realized that his friends, particularly Natasha, were watching him as if he’d gone off his nut, although Jarvis was chuckling and Skye was outright guffawing at the turn of events. It was the first time he’d laughed—truly _laughed_ —in weeks, and the catharsis it brought was amazing.

Peggy straightened her robes as if nothing untoward had happened right before a gruff voice announced, “Miss Carter.”

The laughing and chuckling echoing around the entrance hall abruptly ceased at the arrival of the first years, who were led as usual by—

“Professor Phillips,” greeted Peggy, utterly unperturbed.

“I see you’re welcoming our guests, that’s good,” Phillips proclaimed, leading the group of anxiously excited first years into the entrance hall. He waved a hand for them to stop near the doors to the Great Hall and approached Rumlow, towering over him to look him over with disdain. “Get your ass up outta that dirt and stand in line at attention until somebody comes and tells you what to do.”

Shooting one final, venomous glare at Peggy, Rumlow allowed Rollins to help haul him to his feet before grunting, “Yes, sir.” Both of them edged past Phillips to join the rest of the Durmstrang students where they were congregating along the opposite wall while Peggy and her entourage swept into the Great Hall without another word.

Phillips turned his stern gaze on all of them, and Yasha straightened out of habit under his scrutiny. He was probably imagining it, but he thought the professor’s eyes lingered on him for just a moment longer than the others before he turned back to the first years, who were watching the proceedings with wide eyes.

The good news was that they didn’t have to listen to Rumlow’s mouth again. The bad news was that they _did_ have to listen to Phillips give his typical _Welcome to Hogwarts, Get With the Program or Die_ speech. Five years later, it was still as intimidating as it had been when he was one of those short little squirts getting ready to be sorted for the first time in front of everyone. He remembered thinking Phillips was a little out there back then, joking with Steve and T’Challa about him as they prepared to enter the Great Hall. It appeared that nothing had really changed in that regard.

Before opening the door, Phillips turned back to the rest of them and ordered, “You’ll wait out here until we finish the first Sorting. Get in line, neat rows of two before I get back.”

He didn’t wait to see if they obeyed, leading the way into the Great Hall and letting the door fall closed after the last first year with an echoing _boom_.

As soon as he was gone, everyone seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief but began ordering themselves as he’d specified in front of the closed doors. Even Rumlow was smart enough to keep his mouth shut to avoid saying anything else to either get him in trouble or make a fool out of himself as he and Rollins positioned themselves at the front of the line. Yasha and Nat stood side by side somewhere in the middle, the twins directly in front of them while Jarvis and Skye took the spot behind.

<I think I’ll remember that moment until the day I die,> Nat whispered with a smirk, glaring at the back of Rumlow’s head.

<It might just be the highlight of my year,> sighed Yasha, feeling a tap on his shoulder and glancing back to see Jarvis grinning.

<It’ll be the highlight of my _life_. >

They shared a snigger before seeing the object of their jeering had turned to glower menacingly at them, but the intensity of his gaze was entirely lost when Yasha remembered him in a heap of red cowardice at Peggy Carter’s feet. He hadn’t really taken Rumlow seriously before anyway—now he _definitely_ couldn’t.

Rumlow whipped back around as the door creaked open to reveal Phillips, who offered a flat look at all of them before jerking his head and retreating without a word. The line marched along in his wake, passing under the scrutiny of hundreds of eyes as they made their way to the front of the Great Hall. Unlike when Yasha was a first year, he kept his eyes straight ahead. He could see most of the other Durmstrang students doing the same, not bothering to take a closer look at the brilliant display around them in favor of presenting a good image. Yasha didn’t care about any of that: he was more concerned with the fact that most of the people in this hall were probably remembering that they were here because their school might be tied to Hydra. There was no telling what most of them were thinking.

The line reached the dais where the High Table was situated and halted; there were no whispers behind them like there usually were during the first years’ Sorting, leaving them in an uncomfortable silence. Professor May was standing before them, the familiar stool and old hat settled beside her, but Fury was the one to address the congregation.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” he said to the assembled students in red. Yasha swallowed heavily as his eye passed over them dispassionately. “While you’re here, you can consider this school your home. I’m sure I speak for everyone in this room when I say that we welcome you here with open arms.”

Yasha hadn’t known Fury to welcome _anything_ with open arms. Still, he couldn’t help taking note of the very distinct warning in his words to everyone else gathered behind where they were standing: _Don’t fuck with the new kids._

“Professor May,” he gestured to her, indicating she could commence.

“You’ll be called alphabetically. When you hear your name, you’ll sit on the stool while I place the Sorting Hat on your head. Then you’ll join the house you’re assigned to,” she explained brusquely before starting to run down the list.

Some of the students she called were in their third year, but Yasha didn’t notice any obvious first or second years among them. He wasn’t sure if the first years had been instructed to behave as a Hogwarts student would and had already entered for the first Sorting, but he remembered Tatiana mentioning at dinner one night that a lot of parents were deciding to home school their children until Durmstrang reopened, which explained why there weren’t many of them there. Yasha didn’t envy them, though—he couldn’t imagine teaching a child Dark Arts in the comfort of their own home. He couldn’t imagine teaching that _at all_ , but that was neither here nor there.

“Jarvis, Edwin.”

<There’s my cue,> he muttered, placing a hand on Yasha’s shoulder as he squeezed past and made his way up to Professor May.

The hat barely touched his head before calling out, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

There was polite applause from the yellow-and-black table as Jarvis made to join them, although Yasha noticed that there was no cheering or mass applause like there was when the first years were sorted. It only added to the feeling that they weren’t wanted here, yet another reminder that this was no longer his home.

May continued rapidly down the list, the Durmstrang students sorted relatively evenly among the four houses. Skye was placed in Gryffindor, which came as absolutely no surprise, as was Wanda, which most certainly _did_. Yasha could tell she was disappointed after Pietro had been sorted into Slytherin, but she held her head high as she went to join the red-and-gold table.

There was one moment, however, when Yasha thought for sure that the hat was malfunctioning. There was absolutely no other way he could think of that Jack Rollins, asshole extraordinaire second only to Rumlow himself, could belong in _Ravenclaw_.

<What the actual _fuck_? > he muttered in utter bafflement as Rollins made his way to join the correct table.

Nat just shook her head slowly and breathed, <I think they need to get that hat checked.>

“Romanoff, Natasha.”

<See you on the other side.>

He hummed as Nat brushed her fingers along the back of his hand and approached the stool. It took a few seconds longer than most before the hat called, “SLYTHERIN!”

It took no time at all for it to do the same for Rumlow.

There were a couple of other students, both sorted into Gryffindor, before May announced, “Smirnov, Yasha.”

If there was one moment that day where Yasha felt an overwhelmingly unnerving sense of déjà vu more than any other, it was as he strode past the last two students still waiting and walked up to the dais, turning to face the assemblage. Professor May lowered the hat onto his head once he was seated, but he didn’t hear anything this time. For a long minute, he wondered if maybe the hat wasn’t going to say anything at all when he finally distinguished its voice from his own thoughts in his head once again.

“Well now, I can honestly say I’ve never sat on the same head twice before,” it drawled inside his mind. “Welcome back, Barnes.”

 _Uh, yeah… If you could keep that to yourself, that would be great_ , he thought frantically, hoping the hat could sense his desperation.

“What do you take me for, a bowler? It’s not my place to sit gossiping in the headmaster’s office all day.”

Unable to help smirking, Yasha ducked his head a bit to hide his face from the other students. _Thanks…I think._

“Of course. Now, as to your house… I see no reason to sort you any differently than I did before.”

_You… You don’t?_

“Did you think you’d changed so much?” it inquired shrewdly. If a hat could be considered perspicacious, Yasha thought it would definitely be this one.

 _I guess_ , he admitted, pondering for a moment before deciding that he could probably trust the hat with an honest answer. (What an odd idea _that_ was.)

_Everything’s changed. It just feels like…I’m not the same either. Last time, you said I was brave and clever and loyal, but… I just don’t feel like that person anymore._

“And what sort of person _do_ you feel like?” it asked, an edge of sympathy in its tone.

_I don’t really know._

It was silent long enough that he was beginning to think the hat had nothing left to say when it finally spoke again with that same stitch of sadness.

“You may not like me saying so, but I’m seeing that you are lost,” it murmured softly. “You’re right: you aren’t the boy you were five years ago when you sat here before, but at the same time you _are_. Your world has changed and you’ve just lost sight of him. He’s still in here, though, if you only let him out.”

Yasha scrunched up his face. _You think so?_

“I _know_ so—I’m literally _in your head_ , aren’t I?”

_Good point. Okay, but…how?_

“That’s something I can’t answer. You’re smart, though—that’s in here too—you’ll figure it out.”

Taking a deep breath, Yasha nodded before he remembered that there were literally _hundreds of people staring at him_. The hat just chuckled in his head.

“Don’t worry, we’re all a bit crazy here, remember?” it chortled, alluding back to what it had said the first time Yasha sat here. “Everything will be all right, Barnes. Welcome home to—“

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the call rang out.

There was a smattering of applause as May lifted the hat off his head, her eyebrows drawn in while he stood up and probably wondering what had taken so long. He just gave her a feeble smile in return before making his way down to the familiar table where Jarvis and a couple of the other Durmstrang students were standing as they clapped.

Involuntarily, Yasha’s eyes drifted to the Gryffindor table on his way past, almost immediately finding Steve in the crowd out of habit if nothing else. Those blue eyes were following his every move, narrowed slightly in what was beginning to look more and more like the old _Steve Rogers Has a Really Bad Idea_ expression. Nothing good had ever come of it, and Yasha forced himself to look away as he sat down at the Hufflepuff table and waited for the Sorting to conclude.

The last two students were divided among Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff before Fury rose from his seat and May hauled the stool and hat away. His eye surveyed them the way it always did, his gaze intense and intimidating, before he gave the usual spiel Yasha had memorized long ago: don’t go to the Forbidden Forest, don’t be out after curfew, no going to Hogsmeade without a permission form (which Tatiana had already signed and returned because she was doing everything she could to keep him from closing off from the world), and don’t try sneaking out. It was the same speech every year, and Yasha found that it was almost comforting in its familiarity.

Then the platters before them filled with food, various and appealing and more than enough for everyone, and the Great Hall broke out into chatter as the feast began in earnest.

Yasha surveyed the mix of traditional British and American foods with disinterest, trying and failing to find something that struck his fancy. It wasn’t a new occurrence: he hadn’t had much of an appetite for weeks, and the pancakes Tatiana had made for breakfast were already more than he’d eaten for the last three days combined. He’d come out to dinner when called, pushing his food around his plate while nibbling on just enough to satisfy his guardians before retreating back to his room without a word. Otherwise, he avoided food unless prompted; his stomach hadn’t so much as grumbled since…well, _that_.

It had been a pretty good day barring a few setbacks and heartaches, there was no denying it, but some things wouldn’t change overnight and his lack of desire for food was apparently one of them.

Jarvis’s plate was also empty when he turned to look. That, however, appeared to be more because he couldn’t find anything he wanted than that he wasn’t hungry. Frowning, he sighed, <I was very much hoping they would have blood pudding.>

<Anyone who likes blood pudding can’t be trusted,> blurted out Yasha, inwardly cursing himself immediately for echoing his father’s assessment.

Jarvis, however, chuckled good-naturedly and didn’t appear the least bit offended as he confided, <It _is_ an acquired taste. Mum used to make it every week, so I suppose I’ve had plenty of time. >

<Well, maybe they’ll have it tomorrow,> Yasha suggested with a shrug, hoping like hell that they would _not_ have it tomorrow.

<Yes, quite right,> agreed Jarvis, reaching across the table for shepherd’s pie instead. As he was dishing it out onto his plate, he quirked an eyebrow at Yasha and inquired, <Aren’t you eating?>

He was about to say he wasn’t hungry but stopped at the last second, reminding himself not to be fucking weird. Instead he nodded minutely, glancing around at the array before taking a spoonful of macaroni and cheese and three broccoli florets. He figured he’d be lucky to get down about half of it.

After a few bites, he avoided continuing by gazing around the room. Nothing much had changed, and Yasha suspected Hogwarts had been the same for centuries before him and would remain so long after he was gone. The candles were still hovering over the tables; the braziers were still lit along the walls. The four house tables were situated exactly as they’d always been, most of the students happy to be back and sharing the details of their summer over the feast. Here and there the assembly was dotted with red where Durmstrang students were scattered throughout the houses, yet while he’d been expecting to see most of them brooding apart from the rest of their tables, most were actually beginning to mingle with the Hogwarts students. It was an unanticipated surprise, a welcome one at that.

 _Maybe there’s some hope for these assholes yet_ , mused Yasha, absentmindedly taking a bite of his dinner as he turned his attention back to his own table.

On the other side of Jarvis were a group of first years, all of whom had lost the nerves they’d been carrying on their way in and were now chattering excitedly in anticipation for their first day of classes on Monday. Beyond them he could see Sam, Clint, Darcy, and Angie seated together. Clint’s plate was piled high as Yasha had come to expect, but the cluster was unusually somber for the first night of school. Usually the welcome feast was full of laughter and pranks among his former friends as they commenced catching up and taunting one another for some of the more ridiculous adventures they’d had over the summer. (There was one year where Steve had come over from the Gryffindor table to defend himself when Yasha mentioned that they’d spent an entire week thinking there was a grindylow in the lake near Yasha’s house in London only to realize that it was just an admittedly enormous fish when Steve accidentally got too close and fell in the water.) They’d always had fun their first night back, but now they just seemed sad.

That small voice in the back of his head pointed out that they had reason to be sad, that it hadn’t been that long since he’d allegedly been killed with his family, but he shook the thought aside. They’d seemed fairly normal earlier when they got off the train, so grief couldn’t be it. And if it were, it wasn’t like there was anything he could do about it. It wasn’t worth dwelling on either; he already had enough guilt in his life without having to deal with the fact that he was sitting right by his friends and couldn’t just _tell them_ he was here anyway.

Yasha inadvertently alerted Jarvis to his rapidly declining mood by stabbing a piece of broccoli hard enough to send it shooting across the table, landing in an empty water goblet. While Yasha just stared at it, entirely put out, Jarvis’s eyebrows twitched in amusement.

<With aim like that, you should try out for the Quidditch team,> he joked.

Yasha offered him a pained smile in return, pushing his macaroni around the plate to avoid eye contact. <I probably will, actually. My aunt really wants me to.>

<Really?> exclaimed Jarvis in surprise. <I didn’t know you played.>

<It’s…been a long time,> he hedged, shrugging a shoulder listlessly. <Probably not very good anymore.>

Scoffing, Jarvis commented, <I somehow doubt you could come across anything you wouldn’t be very good at, Yasha.>

<Clearly you weren’t paying attention in Dark Arts class.>

<I fear paying attention _wasn’t_ one of my many issues in that class, > he snorted lightly, sighing. <Although it appears that neither of us will have that problem anymore.>

<Thank God.>

Jarvis hummed, but the corner of his mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown. <What do you think happened to Schmidt, anyway? The _Prophet_ says they never found him. >

<Who knows?> grumbled Yasha. <He probably roasted himself on one of his stupid spells.>

Making a noise of disgust, Jarvis cried, <Can you _imagine_? Dreadful way to go, but I suppose that’s what he would get for fooling around with dark magic like that. >

 _It’s less than he would deserve_ , Yasha decided not to say. Most people would probably tell him that they should feel bad for the man, but there wasn’t a sympathetic bone in his body when it came to Professor Schmidt. The teacher had practically worshiped dark magic and anyone who used it properly, so for all Yasha cared, he deserved to be hoisted with his own petard and then some.

He was pulled out of thoughts of dark enchanted fire and death when Jarvis cleared his throat and murmured, <Yasha…>

Glancing over at him, Yasha saw that his expression was apprehensive at best and bit back a groan. He didn’t have the patience for more serious conversation tonight. <Yeah?>

<I just want you to know…> He trailed off, chewing over his words and recommencing from a different angle, <Natasha hasn’t told me anything, but I know neither of us heard from you for most of the summer. Now you’ve been mostly quiet all day and uncharacteristically low-spirited.> When Yasha tried to interrupt, he held up a hand for silence and continued, <I’m not asking. I just want you to know that if there’s anything you need, whether it’s to talk or anything else, just know I’m here.>

Yasha merely blinked at him, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he tried to think of what to say. Eventually he settled for smirking slightly and swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat to tease, <Has anyone ever told you that you talk like you’re an old man, Jarvis?>

<I’ve been made uncomfortably aware of it, yes,> he shot back lightly. Jarvis held his eyes for a moment longer before turning back to his dinner, and Yasha poked at his macaroni idly for a minute before huffing something that he could almost classify as a laugh.

<Hey, Jarvis?>

<Yes?>

_Sorry for being such a shitty friend lately. Sorry you guys have to put up with me. Sorry I’m not myself. Sorry things have changed. Sorry I don’t deserve friends like you._

None of that sounded very good, though, so he just settled on, <Thanks.>

 

***

 

It was difficult to pretend that he didn’t already know where the common room was or how to get in or where their dormitory would be or where the lavatories were—but Yasha was too exhausted by putting in so much effort today to do much more than follow the crowd anyway, so it didn’t bother him as much as it probably should have. Ellie and Piotr had long since graduated, but Yasha didn’t need to be introduced to their new prefects to know who they were.

They’d all pegged Sam as a prime candidate by the second week of their first year, although Yasha had to admit that Darcy appeared to have been chosen out of nowhere. Maybe Fury figured that it would keep her in line to have a bit more responsibility as a role model to the younger students, not that it probably made much of a difference at all. Darcy was a good person, though, and a good listener when she stopped talking long enough, so it was a good choice regardless. They were both welcoming to the first years and new Durmstrang Hufflepuffs alike, pointing everything out with a lot more kindness than Ellie had that first night. Yasha could imagine they were the kind of prefects that the students _weren’t_ afraid to go to for help when they needed it, and he was as immeasurably proud of both of them as he thought he was allowed to be.

When they finished the grand tour, Yasha led the way as he and Jarvis slipped through the door to the boys’ dormitory and found the room for the sixth years. Clint was already inside when they entered, throwing his clothes into a ball inside his wardrobe; that, at least, hadn’t changed. He glanced up at them to at least acknowledge their presence, his gaze lingering slightly longer on Yasha before he turned back to what he was doing.

The Sorting Hat, it seemed, wasn’t the only one here that knew he was back. He’d never seen the Hogwarts house-elves (given that there was some bullshit about a good elf never _being_ seen, but he’d never really bought into that), but they were as omnipresent in the castle as Phillips’s bad attitude. They were also apparently quite clever, because they’d taken Yasha’s belongings from the train and put them at the same bed he had always occupied—on the far side right beneath one of the circular windows. Clint and Sam also had the same beds, and Jarvis’s things were sitting next to the one beside Yasha’s.

Falling back into the habitual processes of his memories, Yasha made a beeline for Winter’s cage and popped the latch, leaning down to see her glaring out at him—another old tradition. She _hated_ being put in her cage even for five minutes, so sitting there waiting for him to arrive after the feast could only be considered a lifetime for his feline friend.

<Sorry,> he whispered, poking a finger into the cage to scratch her ears apologetically. <I came as soon as I could.>

Winter mewed, rubbing her head against his finger in a way that told him if she could speak, she would say, _“Yeah, you’d better pay me back for this.”_

<I know,> he agreed with her unarticulated rebuke, reaching inside to pull her into his arms. She immediately snuggled up under his jaw, purring against his chest as he checked to make sure she’d eaten all the food he’d left in her cage before getting off the train. When he saw she had, he grabbed her stuffed monkey and toy mouse from inside, setting them on the bed and perching at the edge of the mattress to give her a few consolation cuddles before getting ready for bed.

“How long you had the cat?”

Yasha looked up to see Clint watching him carefully, his narrowed eyes shifting between him and Winter sporadically.

 _Fuck, that didn’t take long_ , he sighed to himself, beyond thankful that he’d kept up the _I Don’t Speak English_ front all this time. He was pretty sure Nat didn’t believe it anymore, but she didn’t call him on it either, so he’d count that as a win.

Jarvis intervened after a few moments of awkward silence, clearing his throat. “Not to interrupt, but Yasha doesn’t speak English. Unless you count profanity, in which case he’s remarkably fluent,” he added with a thoughtful nod of his head. “I can translate if you like?”

Grunting, Clint threw himself down on his mattress with a sour expression. “Yeah. Ask him how long he’s had the cat.”

<He’d like to know how long you’ve had Winter,> translated Jarvis.

Okay, so apparently the _bad_ thing about the whole _I Don’t Speak English_ front was that he would have to hear everything repeated before he could answer, which was going to get _fucking annoying_.

Also fucking annoying: as if it wasn’t bad enough that his own past was entirely fabricated, now he’d have to fake his cat’s too. _Beautiful._

<Tell him since she was born—my aunt’s cat was her mother,> he lied quickly. Clint had a bullshit detector as extensive as his appetite, so anything remotely hesitant would set off his alarms.

“He says his aunt’s cat was her mother, so they’ve had her since she was born,” relayed Jarvis, not so much as flinching under Clint’s intensely, surprisingly _hostile_ gaze.

“What’s her name?” he demanded almost immediately.

“Zima,” Yasha cut in before Jarvis could either translate or just answer himself, which would make for an awkward situation either way. The question seemed simple enough for anyone with even the remotest knowledge of the English language, though, so he figured it wouldn’t give him away as long as he made sure to inject as heavy a Russian accent as he could. “Name is Zima.”

Jarvis made no move to correct him, his expression entirely passive until Clint shoved off his bed and stormed across the room, snatching Winter’s monkey in a move that had Yasha’s heart stuttering in his chest.

Waving the stuffed animal in Yasha’s face, Clint growled back to Jarvis, “You ask him where he got _this_.”

<H-He wants to know where that came from,> he obeyed automatically, taking a step closer to the two of them like he might step in if things got violent.

 _My mom and dad got it for her, you son of a bitch, now put it the fuck down!_ he wanted to scream, but he forced himself to remain calm and lie with an adequate amount of concerned confusion,  <A pet store in Berlin. She’s had it for years.>

After Jarvis relayed the message, Clint snorted derisively and threw the toy back down on the bed before crowding Yasha against his wardrobe. “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?” he snarled, the Clint that Yasha remembered vanishing behind this vitriolic, _furious_ person in front of him. He didn’t seem to care whether Yasha could understand him as he continued, his voice rising in volume while Winter hissed at him for yelling at her human. “That’s my _friend’s_ fucking cat, and I want to know where the _fuck_ you got her, you Hydra piece of _shit_! You think we wouldn’t _notice_? You think we’re _that stupid_ that we wouldn’t see? _Where the fuck did yo_ —“

“Clint, man, back the hell up!” Sam yelled, none of them having heard him enter the dormitory in the heat of Clint’s tirade. When Clint didn’t show any sign of listening, Sam grabbed him by the back of his robes and literally dragged him out of Yasha’s face. It looked like it was taking every ounce of effort to keep him back, but when Jarvis approached to lend a hand, Clint shoved him away with a look of disgust on his face.  
  
“Don’t you touch me, motherfucker!”

“Clint, cool it!” shouted Sam. “You’re _way_ outta line, just calm the hell down!”

“No! That’s Winter—you _know_ it’s Winter, and I wanna know where the fuck he got ‘er!”

Groaning in exasperation, Sam grunted with exertion before arguing, “Man, do you know how many cats look _exactly_ alike?” It sounded like he’d already said it before, and Yasha wondered if that was what Sam had been talking to Steve and Peggy about when they arrived before the feast.

Clint’s struggles were growing weaker, but he still pointed furiously at Yasha’s bed. “The monkey—“

“Is probably sold at thousands of stores around the world,” interrupted Sam, sensing it would be okay to let go and releasing Clint with his arms held out to grab him again if he made a move towards Yasha. He didn’t, but it looked like he desperately wanted to as his eyes remained locked on Winter.

The cat hissed at him one more time in response before sinking her claws into Yasha’s robes and nuzzling into his neck while Yasha struggled to control his involuntary trembling.

“Clint, come on,” Sam tried again, shaking his head despairingly. “They’re gone, man. You gotta let them go.”

Clint didn’t answer for a long time, never once taking his eyes off Winter. Eventually, he just made a sound somewhere between a snort and a grunt before turning his back on all of them and leaving the room, making sure to slam the door behind him. The rest of them stood in silence before Sam heaved a sigh and turned to face Yasha, glancing at Jarvis long enough to ask, “Can you translate for me?”

“Of course,” he whispered, swallowing hard.

Sam cleared his throat and began while Jarvis simultaneously translated to the side, “I’m sorry about Clint. We, uh… We lost a friend this summer. You probably saw the stuff in the news about the Undersecretary and her family, right?” He waited for Jarvis to catch up and Yasha to nod before chuckling humorlessly at himself and continuing, “What am I talking about? Of course you know about it—it’s why you guys are here. Anyway, her son… He used to go here. He was one of our best friends, and… It’s tough, being here and knowing he’s… That he’s not…”

He had to stop to clear his throat again, blinking rapidly, and Yasha’s heart ached to just say _I’m here, Sam, I’m right here._

His mouth didn’t move, knowing that to be a lie.

“Anyway,” Sam pressed on, “that’s not your fault. He—our friend, he had a cat that looked _just_ like yours. Her name was Winter, and they were…inseparable. It was like seeing a ghost when she came running in on the train today, man, let me tell you.” He huffed a short laugh. “It’s just…gonna take some time for Clint to come around, I think. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

As soon as Jarvis finished translating, Yasha asked him in a quivering voice, <Can you tell him I understand? And I… And that I’m sorry about their friend?>

Nodding, Jarvis did ask he requested and Sam smiled sadly. “Thanks. I guess now’s a pretty good time for awkward introductions—Sam Wilson,” he said with a small, slightly more genuine grin.

“Edwin Jarvis, and Yasha Smirnov,” Jarvis replied, waving to each of them in turn.

Sam quirked an eyebrow. “Like the vodka?”

<No relation,> chuckled Yasha, letting Jarvis translate that.

Sam’s answering laugh lifted some of the weight off his chest as they set about getting ready for bed, Jarvis and Sam making polite conversation in English that neither of them realized he could understand as he got changed and slipped between his sheets. Winter curled into a ball in the corner of his pillow, nuzzling his cheek while he stroked her head gently. There was a look of unease on Sam’s watching face when Yasha turned to douse the lamp on his bedside table, but it cleared away into an easy smile as soon as they made eye contact. As bad as Yasha’s déjà vu had been during the Sorting Ceremony, he could imagine the feeling was probably unbearable when Sam saw the familiar mannerisms that Yasha hadn’t the heart to downplay between him and Winter.

So, as he tried desperately to find sleep when he was so uncomfortably aware of the fact that Clint hadn’t come back to the dormitory, he resolved to make this as easy for his former friends as possible. He wouldn’t burden them with his presence unless it was absolutely necessary. He wouldn’t force them to remember the friend they’d lost the way he had to live with the shadows of the dead every moment of every day, waking or otherwise.

He would lay who he used to be to rest so the people who once loved him could do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not enough angst for you? [Here's some Steve POV in a blast from the past!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7543288/chapters/17217778)


	4. Equilibrium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on the last chapter of the story now, so I've changed the count to reflect that there will be 19 chapters, which makes it two chapters (and about 25K words) longer than WSC. :D

_Fire lined the walls, licking at the ceiling as he made his way up the stairs toward the Astronomy Tower. It wasn’t the easiest venture since the stones were somehow melting in the heat and sticking to the bottom of his shoes as he struggled to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He tripped up the stairs as best he could, yanking his shoes loose and staggering through the door out into the night._

_The stars were hidden behind towers of smoke, billowing black monoliths that reached high into the sky as if in worship to some fire-god. Just like below, the flames were all around him here with no visible fuel left to burn. Fearsome creatures stared out at him from their depths, mocking and jeering and sneering in contempt as he tried to take a step forward. The stone floor had melted and congealed into a thick, tar-like puddle standing between him and the plinth at the center. He had to get there, though, so he trudged on in spite of the exhaustion clawing at his feet with more tenacity than the sludge._

_By the time he made it from the door of the tower, which had disappeared behind him, to his goal, there was no more light besides that from the blaze around him. The stars, the moon, the distant lights of Hogsmeade—all had been extinguished in the raging inferno of enchanted heat. On the dais, however, it was almost cold where he stood gazing down at the biers. Two large caskets were closed firmly atop those on the left, the fire scorching the edges and turning the bright cherry wood black as it did the same to the smaller one beside them. At the end of the line was a tiny coffin too small even for a baby. It was roughly the size of a large shoebox, closed against the flames, with a carved monkey staring happily up at nothing._

_Only one was left open, a jet black casket with silver satin lining the inside and a silver railing attached to the outside. He caught himself just as his tired legs gave out, using every last ounce of effort to drag himself inside to lie down on the comfortable padding. Exhaling in relief, he turned over onto his back just in time to see one of the creatures from the fire shooting out like the tail of a comet, grinning grotesquely as it slammed the lid shut—_

Yasha jerked upright, breathing harshly as his bleary eyes darted around…the dormitory?

It took him an impossibly long moment before he realized he’d been dreaming, especially considering it was the same nightmare he’d been having nearly every night since his family had died. The only thing that changed was the location: before, they had been on display in Lenin’s tomb rather than the man himself. Now that he was back at Hogwarts, it looked as though his mind was going to get creative.

Burying his face in his hands, Yasha allowed himself a moment to shake off the last vestiges of terror and get his breathing back under control. This was why he hated sleeping just about as much as he hated everything else these days; at least in Moscow he’d been able to hide his misery behind closed doors so he didn’t bother Tatiana and Mikhail with it. Now there would be an audience of three every night to witness the show, or two if Clint decided he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. He hadn’t come back the night before, and Yasha had eventually drifted off to sleep wondering if he was sleeping on the couch in the common room instead.

Distracting himself with thoughts of the night before was unpleasant but at least had the side effect of getting his mind off of his dream. He took a deep breath and peered around the room to see that, luckily, everyone else had already left and he was the last to wake. (He never would have expected to wake up later than Clint.) When he glanced at the clock on his bedside table, his eyes felt like they might pop out of his head when he saw it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon. He’d slept over half the day away.

_Well, at least we don’t have class until tomorrow_ , he sighed internally, making a mental note to set some kind of alarm for tomorrow morning. There was something to be said for September first falling on a Saturday.

Yasha briefly considered lying back down and just spending the rest of the day in bed—there wasn’t much more of it anyway—but reluctantly did the responsible thing and threw the covers back with a huff. The second his feet touched the floor, they were attacked by something sharp. He hissed in pain and looked down to see that he’d almost stepped on Winter where she was playing with her mouse by the bed, and she’d scratched him to get his attention. The magical toy took the opportunity of her distraction to scurry towards the far end of the dormitory, but Winter took no notice as she sank her claws into his pants and tried to climb up his leg.

Smiling a little, Yasha picked her up and helped her into his lap, letting her lick his face while he stroked her back gently. <Sorry, Win. Should’ve looked down.>

It didn’t seem to matter what language he spoke: she always appeared to understand what he was saying and meowed, licking his nose before bumping it with her own. Chuckling, Yasha gave her a good ear scratching before realizing that his dumb ass not getting out of bed meant he _hadn’t fed Winter_ , but one guilty look at her bowl showed him there was extra food left in the bottom.

<Where’d you get breakfast, Winter?> he asked slowly, looking her in the eye as if she would be able to answer.

Instead, someone else said, <From me.>

Yasha nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Jarvis standing in the doorway, not sure how long he’d been watching. It couldn’t have been long, though, otherwise Yasha would have noticed him when he checked the time.

<Thanks,> muttered Yasha bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck. <I didn’t mean to sleep so long.>

Jarvis shrugged. <That’s quite all right. I thought you must be tired, especially when _Zima_ didn’t try to wake you. >

Flinching, Yasha’s eyes fell down to study his quilt. _Okay, yeah, I guess we’re gonna have to talk about that._

It didn’t mean he had to make the first move, though, and Yasha stayed determinedly silent for so long that he hoped Jarvis might take the hint and drop it. He didn’t, however, which made this one of the only times in Yasha’s memory that he had actually stood up to someone before. Given the situation, he was positive he didn’t feel nearly as proud as he probably should as Jarvis approached, sitting on the edge of his own bed to stare at Yasha.

<You can’t expect me not to ask about what happened last night,> he told him sternly, sounding more like Natasha than himself.

_I’d bet ten Galleons he told her and she sent him down here since she can’t get in our common room_ , grumbled Yasha to himself, refusing to answer.

Jarvis sat up straighter, pointing to Winter where she was batting her paw at a stray strand of Yasha’s hair. <They knew her name. They even recognized her toys, which is rather odd to say the least, but so was the entire conversation. I know I told you at dinner I wouldn’t ask, but I’m _asking_. >

Swallowing heavily, Yasha shrugged his shoulders and shot Jarvis a look that he knew must be more than slightly pleading. <I don’t have an answer for you.>

<If you’ll pardon the expression, that’s bullshit, Yasha,> Jarvis waved him off impatiently. <We both know it. You’ve always given the appearance of honesty with us, but now you’re keeping secrets.>

<I’m sorr—>

<It’s not _me_ you have to worry about, > he interrupted with a mildly guilty expression. <Now, I don’t want to make you angry…>

<But you told Nat and she’s on the warpath.>

His head twitching to the side, Jarvis admitted, <For lack of better terms, yes.>

Groaning, Yasha set Winter on the bed before heaving himself to his feet and pacing the length of the room a few times. His temper licking at the bottom of his stomach like flames, he whirled around to face Jarvis and cried, <Why did you have to tell her? Why can’t you both just leave it alone?>

<Because in case you hadn’t noticed, Clint Barton was about ready to have you drawn and quartered if you didn’t come up with some answers about _a cat_. >

<He’s paranoid, that’s all. It’s nothing I can’t handle.>

<It certainly didn’t look that way from where I was standing last night, if you don’t mind my saying so.>

<Yes, I fucking mind you saying so!> growled Yasha, shooting him a filthy look.

<Yasha, just stop and _listen_ for _one_ moment,> requested Jarvis, and the utter calmness of his voice was what brought Yasha down more than anything else. He was breathing just as hard as he had been when he woke and was beginning to regret not just going back to sleep and giving up on today.

Once he was sure Yasha was listening, Jarvis stood up and took a step closer. <You have to understand what it looks like from our perspective. You were fine at the end of last term, more than fine. We didn’t hear from you for _weeks_ , and now you’re anything but. You can’t be angry with us for being concerned. We’re your friends.>

<I don’t _need_ you to be concerned, > whispered Yasha harshly, his eyes itching suspiciously. <I can get by on my own.>

<No one doubts that,> Jarvis reassured him with a sorrowful shake of his head. After a moment’s hesitation where he seemed to consider just leaving it at that, he inquired, <But don’t you want _more_ than to just get by? >

<Right now, I just want to get dressed and find something to eat,> Yasha mumbled in response, not meeting his eyes.

They both stood in silence for an immeasurable moment before Jarvis seemed to deflate a bit, nodding sadly as he headed for the door. Before he closed it behind him, he turned back to say, <My offer last night still stands, Yasha. Whatever you need…> And then he was gone.

Yasha just remained standing where he was as the guilt set in, closing his eyes against the brightness of the room. He hated pity. Sure, Jarvis would probably say it was compassion or sympathy or something like that, but he _knew_ what it really was: pity for the kid who was falling apart at the seams. Tatiana said she and Mikhail were concerned as well, but they were his _guardians_ ; whether they cared for him on a more personal level or not, it was their _job_ to be concerned when they knew he wasn’t doing well. They’d been entrusted that task by his parents years ago, and they’d stuck by it ever since. But he didn’t feel pitied by them, which was probably why he hadn’t blown up over the last few weeks.

Now, though, he was surrounded by people who had expectations— _talk to us, Yasha; look at that, Yasha; be normal, Yasha_. He was trying to meet them, but it was like being pulled in two directions between the need to hide from his former friends and the need to act natural for his other friends. He felt as though there were people holding on to both his hands and running in opposite directions, and any minute now he was going to rip in two.

 He reveled in the sensation of being whole and unobserved until the quiet began to suffocate him, trying desperately not to think about Jarvis or Natasha or Clint or _anything_ as he went to pull his trunk out from under his bed and popped the lid open. He hadn’t bothered putting his clothes away last night, and he certainly didn’t feel motivated to do it right now, so he just pushed his things from side to side until he found a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that had seen better days to wear. It would probably be a good idea to take a shower, too, but he honestly didn’t think there was much point in it. He’d had a shower the previous morning before Nat arrived, and it was late enough now that he could take one before bed without smelling too rank. It wasn’t like he planned on doing anything or interacting with people today anyway; he’d get dressed, get something to eat even though his stomach roiled at the thought of food, and then come right back here. Nothing else interested him.

Just as he was about to shut his trunk and stow it back under the bed, a glimpse of blue and red caught his eye at the very bottom underneath the mess of clothes and books and broomstick (which he very much needed to return to its proper size but would avoid doing where Clint could see and say he stole _that_ too). His fingers trembling, he reached out and pulled Bucky Bear out of the disorganized chaos, staring down at it with his mouth hanging open slightly.

Yasha didn’t remember packing it. When he’d first left to live with Tatiana and Mikhail, he thought he’d been rather sneaky about putting it with the rest of his things that would accompany him to Moscow, wanting that one piece of his real home in the fake one he was going to. The first night in the apartment, he’d perched the bear on the end of his dresser so that he would have it to look at when he was feeling homesick. It had been there ever since; he’d been too scared to take it to Durmstrang lest someone find it and destroy either the bear or his reputation (not that he cared much about what those assholes thought of him, but it was better not to _invite_ trouble if he could help it).

It was a sign of what sort of headspace he’d been in that he hadn’t even thought about bringing it with him when it was the last piece of home he had anymore. Most people had stuff to remember their past by—family pictures, home videos, their mother’s jewelry, _something_ that they could look at and know that they were loved by someone once. Since the only thing he’d taken with him was the bear, everything else had been destroyed in the fire. There would be no photos of his family at holidays or when he was a baby; his mom wasn’t much for jewelry, but the pretty ruby necklace she wore every day and her wedding ring would have been reduced to ash or buried with her. His dad’s dog tags had always been around his neck, even after his discharge, and no one knew there was any next of kin left to give them to anyway.

All he had were his memories and his bear, which Tatiana must have packed along with his broom.

_Yeah, I definitely need to get her a good Hanukkah gift_ , he reaffirmed silently. A drop of moisture pattered down to discolor the fur on Bucky Bear’s left ear, and Yasha sniffed as he smoothed it away to dry before placing it gently back in his trunk. He couldn’t let the others see it, even if the only person who would be able to recognize it was Steve. He couldn’t leave it unprotected in the face of the cold, heartless world lest it, too, be lost forever.

 

***

 

Someone upstairs was apparently in the mood to answer Yasha’s prayers for once, because Nat wasn’t in the Great Hall when he trudged inside. No one was in there, actually, and the tables were cleared of all the food and dishware that was usually set out during mealtimes. Sighing in aggravation, Yasha collapsed onto one of the benches and glared down at the table. He should have known it wouldn’t be worth wandering outside his dorm and pulling himself away from Winter just to get something he probably wasn’t going to eat anyway.

Leaning an elbow on the table, Yasha dropped his face into his palm and sighed. Jarvis hadn’t been in the common room, nor had Sam or Clint, so he could probably sneak back in and fill Winter’s food bowl for dinner before grabbing a shower and going right back to bed.

He’d almost gathered the energy to get back to his feet when a tiny popping noise caught his attention. Frowning, he glanced around the still empty Great Hall before looking down to see a plate and goblet in front of him. It was nothing fancy, just a peanut butter sandwich and some milk, but it would nourish his perpetually empty stomach regardless.

“Thanks,” he whispered in English to the table, feeling like an absolute fool but not wanting the house-elves in the kitchens to think he was an ungrateful prick. The sandwich actually looked appetizing, the first thing that did in weeks, so he picked it up to scarf it down while the sensation lasted.

He was barely halfway through when something tugged at the hem of his T-shirt, and Yasha looked down at the bench to see a little machine with a robot arm pulling at his shirt. It was a bit bigger than the one he remembered, but he nevertheless recognized it immediately from the train on his first day at Hogwarts. The memory of Steve’s irritation and Tony’s flamboyant arrogance made him smile a little, at least until Dum-E poked him in the side rather viciously.

<You can’t have my sandwich, if that’s what you want,> he grumbled, wondering where the robot’s owner was. It whirred in a way that almost sounded frustrated—Yasha thought maybe he was finally losing his mind after all the near misses recently. Shaking his head, he took another bite and argued through the peanut buttery goodness, <Mine. Back off.>

The little claw at the end of the arm dropped down before making a whirring beep noise that _was not_ distress, dammit. Why the hell wasn’t it with Tony where it was _supposed_ to be?

“Oh good, there you are!”

_Speak of the devil…_

Yasha took an overlarge bite of his sandwich to avoid having to say anything as Tony Stark ignored the hell out of him to pick up his robot, turning it this way and that to look for any potential damage. He was frowning in irritation, grunting, “If you’re going to run off, try to make it worthwhile, buddy. I swear, peanut butter’s just gonna grind your gears. You didn’t give ‘im any, did you?”

There was a brief pause before Yasha uncomfortably realized that Tony was talking to _him_. Swallowing down his mouthful, he turned to look up at him with a quirked eyebrow. Tony had grown, although he was still on the short side and probably _hated_ the fact that Steve shot past him, and was sporting a trendy goatee that could doubtless rival any man under the age of forty. His eyes were locked on Yasha without recognition, waiting for an answer.

<Uh…>

“Oh, you must be the one that doesn’t speak English. One sec.” Tony reached in his pocket and retrieved something purple, handing one to Yasha while hooking the other over his own ear.

Yasha held the tiny device up to the light, frowning in confusion. It looked like a hearing aid only less technical. It was just a rubbery purple arch with a string on one side. Shaking his head, he looked back up at Tony and hoped his shrug conveyed that he had absolutely no fucking clue what he was on about.

The Slytherin sighed impatiently as if Yasha was wasting his genius and turned to show him his own ear. “Put it over your ear with the string inside—it’s not advanced potion-making.”

Rolling his eyes, Yasha imitated the way he’d put it on until he had the weird squishy end sticking just inside his ear. When Tony pulled out his wand and pointed it at him, however, he jerked back with a cautious glare and the Slytherin held his hands out, palms up.

“Just turning it on, for fuck’s sake. _Here_.” He held it up to his own head and tapped the device before pointing to his mouth and slowly instructing, “Say something.”

<What are you doing?>

“See, _I_ can understand _you_ ,” Tony continued, gesturing largely with his hands as if that was going to help Yasha comprehend his meaning when he didn’t speak English. Leave it to Tony Stark to figure out how to speak his language when all he wanted was some peace and quiet. No amount of ignoring him would work, though; he knew that from previous experience. It was best to just get it over with.

<Okay, whatever.>

He allowed Tony to wave his wand in the direction of the device on his ear, a tingle of warmth flowing through it as Yasha assumed it turned on.

“There, can you understand me now?” Tony asked. His mouth was still making English words and Yasha could hear them just as he had a moment ago, but it was translated to Russian in his head.

<You do realize there’s a spell for this, right> inquired Yasha with a sigh of annoyance.

“He speaks!” exclaimed Tony, waving his hands triumphantly in the air. “And yes, of course there’s a spell, but this _streamlines_ it.”

_Here we go again._ <What are you talking about?>

“The Translation Spell works to translate _one_ language into _one_ other language, comrade, but it doesn’t translate _every_ language into _every_ other language without casting a new spell. Which is where this,” he pointed to his ear smugly, “comes in.”

<That’s…impressive,> Yasha had to admit, shrugging slightly. Preening at the compliment, Tony plopped himself right down next to him at the table, clearly not catching the serious _Get Fucking Lost, Stark_ vibes Yasha thought he was doing a pretty good job of broadcasting.

“You’re damn right it’s impressive,” he waved him off dismissively as if the halfhearted praise had meant nothing. “Anyway, not what I came here for, Gorbachev. Tell me you didn’t give anything sticky to my buddy over here.”

Yasha watched him gesture to the robot, which was still making grabby-claws at his lunch. <No, I didn’t.>

“Good. Nothing sucks more than trying to get shit outta the gears, seriously. Well, I mean, I can think of a _few_ things that suck more—“

<I think I’m good,> Yasha stopped him with a pinched expression.

Chuckling, Tony shrugged sarcastically and plowed right ahead because he was _Tony fucking Stark_ and didn’t understand social cues. “So, you seem like a pretty laid back guy.” He gestured at the torn jeans and shitty T-shirt Nat had vetoed yesterday, but his expression was surprisingly sharp as he seemed to deliberate over something for a long moment. “Just the second opinion I need.”

<I have a feeling I’m going to regret this, but an opinion on _what_ exactly? > he inquired reluctantly, finishing off his sandwich to avoid eye contact. In his past life, he’d been approached by Tony on no less than fifteen separate occasions (he’d counted) for his opinion on a prank or invention once the Slytherin found out he was into that sort of thing. Of course, Tony hadn’t sought him out until he was in his second year because, well, it was _just a little gauche to ask the kiddies, come now_. But still, Yasha had been fortunate enough to be in the know so he wasn’t taken by surprise the way they were on Halloween in their first year. He called that a win.

“This is only your second day, so I’m sure you haven’t heard any of the town gossip, but I’m a bit of the resident genius around here.”

<You. A genius,> deadpanned Yasha with a flat expression. <Okay.>

“Be nice, Petrushka,” Tony scolded him. “Anyway, Halloween is sort of my _thing_ at this school. We have a big feast, celebrate the greatest candy-giving holiday since Christmas, and I provide the entertainment. It’s a Hogwarts tradition.”

Raising an eyebrow, Yasha skeptically commented, <And I’m sure you have the headmaster’s approval for your _entertainment_ , yes?>

Tony scoffed. “Please, Fury loves a good surprise.”

<He certainly seems the type.>

“Exactly.”

_Either he’s ignoring the sarcasm, or…_

“So given your current position as, y’know, new kid on the block meets homeless vagabond with no friends, I figure you’re a safe bet for good consumer reviews without spreading it around everywhere.”

<You know how to flatter a man,> snorted Yasha, shaking his head incredulously and moving to take a sip of his drink. Three years had made Tony even _more_ insufferable than he’d been when they were kids, and that was saying something.  <And why exactly haven’t you asked any of the friends I _assume_ you have for their opinions? >

For the first time, Tony looked about as close to nervous as it was possible for him to get, but he shrugged like it was nothing. “They just don’t _appreciate_ the fine art of Halloween surprises…?” Tony trailed off, waving a hand vaguely in his direction.

<Yasha.>

“Yasha!” Tony slapped him on the back, nearly making him pour milk down his front. “Not at all. Rhodey and Rogers aren’t any fun on a normal day, so you can _imagine_ how testy they get around the holidays. It’s like they have no sense of adventure.”

Frowning, Yasha side-eyed him. <You’re friends with _Steve Rogers_? >

“Yoooooou know him? Big, blond, beefy, and beyond incapable of taking a joke?” Was that a touch of wariness he was detecting?

Yasha shrugged immediately and picked up his goblet again to keep his fucking mouth from doing anything stupid after overdosing on idiocy yesterday. <We met on the train. It was just for a minute.>

Tony heaved a sigh of relief, leaning his elbows back on the table and stretching his legs across the aisle. Dum-E commenced poking at Yasha’s empty plate sadly once he— _it_ —was set free. “He’s a good guy—got a stick up his ass the size of his broomstick, but good guy. Anyway, he and Rhodey are out, and my girlfriend Pepper—“

Milk flew up his nose and Yasha choked in surprise, sputtering as he beat a fist on his chest. _Pepper Potts?! Pepper is actually dating this idiot?!_

Given that it was Tony Stark who said so, he knew he should probably take it with a grain of salt, but _still_. Tony had had his eye on Pepper for years and, much as Yasha failed to understand it, she had a soft spot for Tony that nobody else on the planet seemed to—including his own father. How the _hell_ did he manage to land _her_?

_Bribery. That’s the only possible explanation._

When he surfaced, Tony was staring at him with raised eyebrows so he waved a hand and apologized, <Sorry, continue.>

“Yeeeeeah, so anyway, Pepper’s got this whole jealous streak since she graduated and can’t see my fine work in action anymore. Don’t want to make it worse than it has to be, y’know what I mean?”

_Somehow I sincerely doubt that._ <So you’d rather ask a total stranger you literally met five minutes ago instead of going to someone you actually know?>

“Focus groups are worthless unless you capture a wider audience, commie boy,” Tony shrugged. Yasha assumed he was meant to take that as a confirmation.

Yasha set his goblet down and leaned his elbows forward onto the table in front of him, hanging his head low. He figured he would need all his reserves of patience on duty for this. <Fine. What is it?>

“Yeesh, are all you Durmstrang dolls this charming?”

<You have five seconds to finish befo—>

“Okay, so you know what a dementor is, right?”

<They’re the creatures that guard Azkaban,> Yasha recalled slowly. There was a vague memory he could still just barely recall from when he was little and his mother had to go to Azkaban to question one of the inmates being held there. He remembered she was pale and ill when she got home, claiming that she hated being around dementors. It wasn’t until he went to Hogwarts that he saw a picture of them in a book and learned _why_ she felt that way.

“Exactly. Like the Ghost of Christmas Future on steroids with the whole _suck your soul out of your still living body_ deal, right?”

<Tell me you’re not planning on letting a bunch of dementors loose in here,> Yasha entreated with wide eyes. That wasn’t a prank—it was _homicide_.

“Any idiot can get a dementor.” Tony paused for a moment then muttered, “Okay, I mean, they’re all _technically_ under control of the Ministry, which means you actually _can’t_ get one, but that’s beside the point. Where I was _going_ with that before you so rudely interrupted, Khrushchev, was that I’ve invented a machine that creates an _atmosphere_ almost identical to what dementors do when they’re hanging around. The cold, the chills, the sinking feeling of utter despair—typical Halloween shit.”

_Newsflash, pal, it doesn’t have to be Halloween to feel like that_ , Yasha didn’t tell him. Tony wasn’t the most sympathetic person to begin with, so it probably hadn’t even occurred to him.

Clearing his throat, Yasha clarified, <So, you want to set this off in the middle of the feast.>

“That plus a few visual illusions to make it look like we’ve got dementors flying around,” agreed Tony, his shoulders beginning to dip slightly at Yasha’s apparent lack of enthusiasm for the idea. “You’re not a fan.”

<Well, it’s a good idea,> lied Yasha, trying to find a way to say this _nicely_ without coming across as a wet blanket. Besides, Tony wouldn’t leave him alone until he got an answer that met his satisfaction, so there was really no point in delaying the inevitable.  <But you seem like someone who likes flashy things. I think most people are going to be feeling too bad to really react.>

Tony was nodding slowly, his eyes staring into the middle distance as if he was legitimately considering what Yasha was telling him. The Slytherin hadn’t been much for that when Yasha was here before, but hey, they were both older and—hopefully—wiser.

“You’re right,” Tony eventually grumbled, frowning. “This is my last year. It’s gotta be _good_ , not just some spookfest.”

<Sure.>

If Yasha thought he could make a quick escape while Tony was lost in his thoughts, he was clearly mistaken as a hand slapped down on his shoulder and made him flinch.

“I like the way you think, Yash.”

<Thanks…>

“But I’m back to the drawing board, so thanks for nothing,” he added without heat, clapping him on the shoulder one more time before hopping up, almost forgetting to retrieve Dum-E from the table, and sweeping out of the Great Hall without another word.

Yasha was left sitting alone at the table, his empty goblet and plate vanishing from under his nose while he was staring at the wall in sheer horror of what he realized he’d just done. Helping Tony Stark come up with a Halloween prank at Hogwarts was essentially the equivalent of committing a cardinal sin. He hadn’t managed to get himself expelled just yet, but it had been touch and go before. That was the real reason Rhodes tended to steer as far as possible from Tony’s brainchildren, no matter how hard Tony tried to convince himself otherwise: everyone knew better than to throw their towel in that ring when _they_ weren’t a rich genius whose father happened to work at the school. Still, Yasha had managed to keep him from causing a school wide panic with a bunch of fake dementors. That had to be worth some cosmic brownie points, right? At the very least he could classify that as his good deed for the day. It didn’t quite negate the fact that he’d been a total dick to Jarvis that morning, but it was a step in the right direction.

And it earned him the right to spend the rest of the day moping around in bed since he could honestly say he’d interacted with another human being if Tatiana happened to ask. _Nailed it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but [here's a one-shot from Steve's POV that was posted last night!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7543288/chapters/17239510)


	5. Carrying On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who finished this story and started working on the third one? :D

> _Dear Tati,_
> 
> _We made it to Hogwarts safely. We had to go through the Sorting Ceremony so they could put us in a house, and I got Hufflepuff again. The hat was pretty nice about it and said it wouldn’t tell anyone._
> 
> _We forgot something that almost blew my cover: some people recognized Winter. I made up some stuff about where I got her, but one of my roommates thinks I stole her. Some of the people I used to know look at me funny. They haven’t seen through the disguise, but I’m keeping my distance to be safe. It’s making Nat and Jarvis really suspicious, though. I should be fine as long as I don’t screw anything else up. I know you said not to close off, but it’s kind of hard when I’ve got to be careful who’s listening._
> 
> _Thank you for the extra thing you put in my trunk before I left. I didn’t figure out how much I needed it here until I found it this morning._
> 
> _Classes start tomorrow, so I might be too busy to write this week. If I am, I’ll send you an owl next weekend. I promise._
> 
> _Yasha_

 

***

 

It took more effort than Yasha cared to admit getting out of bed on Monday morning. He spent an inordinate amount of time staring at the ceiling after his nightmare du jour woke him at some ungodly early hour, watching the angle of the sun as it rose outside the windows while the others got up one by one to prepare for the day.

Clint had been back in the dormitory on Sunday night, although he was essentially pretending Yasha didn’t exist, which suited him just fine. Sam felt bad enough about his friend’s shitty behavior to hand out apologetic smiles like candy all the while. It became apparent fairly quickly that he was giving Yasha a wide berth as well, but at least he wasn’t rude about it.

Because he was a far better friend than Yasha deserved, Jarvis acted as though nothing had happened the previous day. He chatted pleasantly at Yasha, who was having trouble finding his words this morning, detailing all the things about the castle he’d discovered the previous day when he’d apparently gone exploring with Natasha, Skye, and the twins. Most of them were things Yasha had learned years ago, but he smiled and nodded stiffly to avoid raining on Jarvis’s parade. If anything, the one-sided conversation was a noninvasive indication of Jarvis’s understanding: Yasha would tell him what was going on when he was ready, _if_ he was ready. There was nothing more he could say to change it.

Nat, on the other hand, was a whole other matter.

<He lives!> exclaimed Skye sarcastically when Yasha entered the Great Hall a step behind Jarvis. She was decked out in her Gryffindor finest, their Durmstrang robes having been magically transformed into their respective house robes by Sunday morning. (Yasha couldn’t help the idle thought that Rumlow had probably shit a few bricks at the sight.) The others were similarly dressed to match their houses, which only made Nat’s green eyes flash all the more dangerously against her Slytherin robes as he and Jarvis took seats at the Gryffindor table where they’d gathered.

<You didn’t show up to dinner last night,> she observed tonelessly, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

Shrugging uncomfortably, Yasha evaded, <Ate a late lunch, wasn’t really hungry.>

Nat hummed noncommittally. A second later, there was a plate piled high with eggs and bacon shoved under his nose, two slices of lightly buttered toast joining immediately after.

The brief bout of appetite he’d had yesterday afternoon appeared to have been extinguished, and Yasha swallowed down his nausea as the smell of the food invaded his nostrils. <Nat…>

<Your _late lunch_ is probably long gone by now, > she interrupted, shrugging her shoulders. <You must be _starving_. >

Yasha glared at her, the rest of their friends looking back and forth between the two of them as if they weren’t sure whether they should be running or trying to defuse the situation. When it became clear that neither Yasha nor Nat would be moved, Wanda leaned forward to put her hand in the middle of the table.

<You’ll need your strength today, Yasha. Just have a bit of toast?> she proposed, eyebrows turning up.

<Yeah,> Skye agreed with a tentative smile. <Trust me, nothing’s more embarrassing than your stomach growling when the whole class is dead quiet.>

_They’re just concerned about you_ , he reminded himself as he turned his gaze back to his plate. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stomach the majority of it, not the way he was feeling right now, so he obediently picked up a slice of toast and took a tiny bite of the corner. It went down like a hunk of sandpaper, but he took another bite anyway. Forget his stomach growling in class—it was more embarrassing to see just how _relieved_ all his friends looked that he’d just put food in his mouth and swallowed it.

_I’m officially pathetic._

They didn’t make a big deal out of it, Jarvis serving himself a plate while Wanda and Pietro commenced their argument over which class had more utility for the future: Ancient Runes (which Wanda was taking) or Arithmancy (which Pietro had chosen). Yasha couldn’t say he had much of an opinion either way; they both sounded equally boring, and even Steve had said it was pretty hard to sit through Ancient Runes sometimes. Thankfully, it appeared that his opinion wasn’t needed for this conversation, so he nibbled at his toast in silence and let the others handle the socializing.

Nat kept shooting him warning looks every time she believed he might be stopping until he’d finished both slices of toast and had some orange juice, so it was a relief when everyone’s attention was captured by the arrival of the post. The _Daily Prophet_ came for Jarvis like it did every morning, but otherwise there was nothing for any of them. Yasha did flag down one of the birds before it vanished back up into the rafters, withdrawing the letter he’d written Tatiana in a burst of motivation the night before and securing it to the owl’s leg before it flew off again.

<Well, it would appear that the _Prophet_ thinks we’re all _brave and accommodating_ for giving up our school and coming to Hogwarts, > mused Jarvis over a cup of tea, sipping lightly as he perused the front page.

Pietro rolled his eyes and snorted, <They make it sound as if we chose to come here.>

<Like it’s a _chore_ ,> scoffed Skye. <Look at this place—it’s _amazing_ , right? Durmstrang can suck it.>

<Yeah, don’t say that too loud around Rumlow,> Nat reminded her, although she didn’t seem too concerned herself. No one at Durmstrang had ever had the courage to mess with her, not that Yasha could blame them.

The rest of the conversation dissolved into attacks on their classmate’s character. Yasha didn’t hear it, however, as his eyes locked on one of the larger headlines on the front page of the _Prophet_ : “MINISTER SHUTS DOWN MUGGLE ORIENTATION PROGRAM FOR SQUIBS – CLAIMS DRAIN ON RESOURCES TO BLAME.”

Yasha tried to ignore it. He tried to look right back down at his plate and keep listening to his friends. He hadn’t kept up with the news in weeks, knowing that it would be all about a dead family or the Minister’s insincere bullshit.

But that program was his _mother’s_ legislation, and that bastard was repealing it.

<Can I see that for a second?> he asked Jarvis quietly, pointing to the paper.

Jarvis stared at him blankly for a moment before handing it over with a nod. It was all Yasha could do not to snatch it out of his hands as he pushed his plate of untouched food aside and spread it out so he could see the full article.

> _The Minister said in a statement Friday that various programs were currently under review to determine their necessity. While the exact reasons for this move weren’t explained in detail, it became obvious through the course of the speech that the current administration believes resources could be allocated with more efficiency than they are at present. During his address, Minister Pierce had the following to say about the current state of affairs at the Ministry:_
> 
> _“Since I took office in January, I’ve noticed many unnecessary drains on current resources. The aim of the Ministry is to ensure that we are doing what’s best for the Wizarding community as a whole, and we can’t do that when we’re too busy funding failed or superfluous ventures that can be run more effectively on a private level.”_
> 
> _The first of these ventures, according to the Minister, is the Society for Squib Acclimation (SSA), a Ministry-sanctioned and funded organization that has been helping Squibs discover and find a place in the Muggle community since 1999. The bill founding this organization, which was originally drafted and promoted by the late Undersecretary Barnes, ensures that those born without powers to magical parents will have somewhere to turn for options so they are able to acquire an education and employment among Muggles. This, according to the Minister, is something the Squib in question should work with their family to discover rather than using Ministry resources. The funding for the SSA has been discont—_

Unable to take any more, Yasha roughly shoved the paper back at Jarvis with a grunt of thanks before standing up from the table.

<Where are you going?> inquired Nat with a concerned frown.

<Class,> was all he said in response, slinging his bag over his shoulder and stalking out of the Great Hall.

No one followed as he made his solitary way up the grand staircase to Charms, where he dumped his bag on a desk in the back and slumped down low in his seat. Professor Stark wasn’t here yet, which left him plenty of time to glare at the wall and try to calm the fuck down.

This was bound to happen. His mom had known it; she’d said as much the last time he was home. Even if she hadn’t, any Minister could choose to change previous legislation. It was just the way things worked—new people came in, they did what they wanted, and eventually they were replaced by someone who would do the exact same thing. It was politics, and it didn’t matter how much it _sucked_ because that was the way politics would always be. That didn’t stop his heart from pounding heavily in his chest as it pumped white hot anger through his veins. Her work was all that was left of his mom. She’d always considered what she managed to accomplish at the Ministry to be some of the finest things she’d done in life. Now some asshole was taking it away and she hadn’t been in the ground two months yet.

Well, he _assumed_ she was in the ground. It wasn’t as if he could very well have shown up to the funeral for his own damn family, after all.

<Never should’ve looked at that stupid fucking paper,> he groaned to himself, fisting his hands in his hair.

<What paper?>

As if he wasn’t in bad enough shape, apparently T’Challa thought he needed a heart attack on top of everything else. Yasha hadn’t even seen him walk in, but he’d clearly been standing in the doorway long enough to hear him talking to himself like a fucking crazy person. Clearing his throat, Yasha took half a second to muster some semblance of composure before he even tried to answer.

<Just something stupid in the _Prophet_ this morning. >

T’Challa nodded knowingly, walking past him to deposit his bag on one of the desks in the front of the room before coming back to sit in the chair next to Yasha.

<I find myself less inclined to read the news these days,> he confided with a shake of his head. <There is not much to be happy about.>

<You’re not wrong,> sighed Yasha in agreement. It was difficult to hold a conversation like this when all he wanted to do was ask about how T’Challa’s princely training was going or what he thought about everything that had been happening recently—but he’d made himself a promise to avoid causing any pain to his former friends after the confusion the other night, and he stood by it no matter how much it hurt him instead.

Rather than leaving him to his thoughts, T’Challa held out a hand. <We did not have the chance for introductions after what happened in Hogsmeade. Luke Charles.>

The name sounded more natural on his tongue than it used to, but Yasha knew all about that.

<Yasha Smirnov,> he replied in kind, shaking the proffered hand.

<How is your cat, Yasha? After her little adventure,> he added with a small grin. <I believe Clint said her name is Zima?>

Wishing for the millionth time for solitude, Yasha swallowed and nodded. <She’s fine. It was her first time on a train, so she was a bit excited.>

There was something funny in T’Challa’s voice when he murmured, <I can imagine,> but Yasha tried not to examine it too deeply. He didn’t know the person sitting in front of him anymore, so it would be an exercise in futility.

<Zima is an interesting name,> T’Challa continued pleasantly, never once breaking eye contact.

<Thank you. My aunt named her.>

<Is she also Russian, your aunt?>

_Where are you going with this?_ <Yes…?>

T’Challa nodded as if that explained something. It wasn’t until Yasha frowned in question that he explained, <I thought that _Zima_ was also Russian for _winter_. > That strange tone was back in his voice again, and Yasha thought he knew what it was now: _probing_. T’Challa was trying to interrogate him.

_Clint, I swear I’m gonna fucking strangle you._

Laughing as naturally as possible, Yasha waved a hand carelessly as if the observation was unimportant. <There were three other kittens in the litter. My aunt thought it would be funny to name them all after the seasons.>

Just like that, T’Challa’s face smoothed back into polite curiosity and he chuckled. <It’s an interesting naming system.>

<Yeah, she’s strange like that.>

<Well, if Zima is ever looking for a friend, I’m sure Igorha would be delighted to have a companion,> offered T’Challa.

<You have a cat?> inquired Yasha with quiet and utterly _false_ delight.

There wasn’t time for T’Challa to do more than nod as footsteps echoed through the corridor and they were joined by other students as they arrived from breakfast, but he offered Yasha a kind smile before he slipped back to his own seat. The second he was gone, Yasha heaved a sigh of relief, resisting the urge to knock his head against his desk with tremendous difficulty. All he could do was pray that eventually, if he stuck to the story long enough, the cat debacle would drop and he’d be able to get on with his half-life in whatever most resembled peace that he could find.

 

***

 

“Nonverbal magic is possibly one of the most difficult feats you’ll achieve this year,” Professor May lectured, staring dispassionately at them from the front of the classroom. “There are plenty of witches and wizards who never learn how to cast a spell without saying the incantation, but you’ll be expected to try anyway. In most cases, simple spells are easily cast nonverbally. More difficult ones take more effort and time, which is why we’re starting with the basics. You might feel like you’re back in your first year for the next few weeks. Suck it up.”

Nat smirked next to Yasha. He figured May would be right up her alley.

“If you think you’ll be all right not using nonverbal spells in this class, remember that all your other professors this year will expect you to do the same at least part of the time.”

That much had already become apparent in yesterday’s Charms class, and Yasha nearly groaned aloud at the memory. Stark had the same arrogant, slightly manic personality as always—though he still had nothing on his son—and told them they had to turn their parchment blue without saying a word. Which was, of course, _great_ if you weren’t counting the fact that he didn’t actually _tell_ them how the fuck they were supposed to do that. Yasha had managed a weak turquoise color by the end of class and had been surprised to see that he was the only one; even T’Challa, who had always been quicker than him at getting a spell to work, was frowning down at his paper as if it had cast a particularly cruel aspersion at him. It really wasn’t his fault, though: Yasha had spent so much of the last three years, and perhaps most especially the last few _weeks_ , internalizing _everything_ that he really wasn’t surprised internalizing spells came more easily to him.

At least May was giving them a heads up, not that it would probably help most of them.

“For today,” she instructed, “you’ll be pairing up with one of your classmates. One of you will attempt a spell _silently_ while the other blocks it _just as silently_. You are _only_ to use Tickling Charms, Shield Charms, or Disarming Charms— _nothing_ else. Any questions?”

Everyone stared at her in silence, which Yasha figured meant they either understood or were too afraid to ask. The latter would make for an interesting class if that were the case.

May nodded once before waving her wand at a sheet of parchment that had been sitting ready on her desk. It floated in front of her as she announced, “When you know who your partner is, you’ll find a corner of the room to work in away from other students. Barton and Charles.”

Clint grinned over at T’Challa, who shot him a mildly pained smirk in return.

“Foster and Jarvis,” May continued, moving down the list. Yasha had been avoiding eye contact with his fellow classmates but couldn’t help looking up when she called, “Rogers and Rogue.”

Steve didn’t appear concerned, glancing at Rogue reassuringly, but Yasha felt like someone had kneed him in the gut. All he could do was pray she’d gotten better at magic in the last three years and wouldn’t land Steve in the hospital the way she had her boyfriend when they were in their third year.

“Rollins and Romanoff.”

<Ugh, good luck with that,> whispered Yasha sympathetically. Nat rolled her eyes before shooting her partner a disdainful glare. Rollins fired right back with the finger, and Yasha knew he’d be paying for that in spades.

“Rumlow and Smirnov.”

_Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck._

“Wilkes and Wilson,” finished May, completely unaware of the fact that she’d sentenced Yasha to a fate worse than death. “All right, you know what to do.”

<Well, this should be interesting,> mused Nat sarcastically. <Too bad you can’t pretend you didn’t understand what she was saying.>

<I’m burning this thing,> he grumbled, flicking the purple device in his right ear. Tony had—unknowingly?—left his translator with Yasha, and he’d been stupid enough to tell his professors that he could understand them if he kept it in. It made it easier to get through class without his teachers thinking he couldn’t figure out what they were saying, but it appeared that he had finally found the drawback.

<Now now, Yasha, be nice.>

He swatted her hand away just before she could grab his cheek, flipping her the bird because _he_ could get away with that.

<Hey, Smirnov, get a move on,> grunted Rumlow as he passed him.

Yasha just followed silently as they took up an empty spot near the classroom door, turning to face each other with obvious distaste.

<All right, I’ll go first,> Rumlow drawled, wand at the ready. <May as well show you how it’s done so you don’t embarrass yourself.>

It honestly wasn’t worth saying anything in response, especially when Yasha was too busy watching the wand that was aimed right at him. They’d sparred a few times, particularly in their Dark Arts class where Schmidt seemed to get a kick out of turning Rumlow loose to _help_ his classmates figure out the more difficult spells; it never made the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach go away when the now Slytherin had his wand pointing directly at Yasha’s heart like he planned to stop it. (And he _could_ stop it if he put his mind to it. That was the scary part.)

Yasha nodded once in acknowledgement and waited, his eyes darting back and forth between Rumlow’s face and his wand.

Nothing happened.

Rumlow’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightened on his wand, and his face turned a little red.

Nothing.

He risked taking his eyes off his opponent long enough to get a good look around the room, which was eerily silent as everyone else tried to cast their own spells. All over the place, there were faces straining in exertion; some were mouthing the spells as if that would help, while others were just desperately waving their wands like something might happen if they put in more vigorous effort.

Turning back, he saw that Rumlow was more intense than any of them as he glared straight at Yasha. If he didn’t know they were just trying to use Tickling Charms, Yasha would have thought he was trying to kill him.

<Are you trying or are you constipated?> inquired Yasha in a bored voice once he’d had enough of waiting. Maybe he could play it off as trying to goad Rumlow into success.

Fire exploded in the Slytherin’s eyes and Yasha had a split second to react before he saw Rumlow’s mouth move—the fucker was _whispering_ the spell!

And it wasn’t a Tickling Charm.

_Protego!_ he thought, panicking as a jet of red light shot out of Rumlow’s wand.

An admittedly weaker version of his usual shield appeared in front of him, blocking the spell and sending it sailing right back at its originator. Rumlow just barely managed to dodge out of the way before it hit him in the chest.

There was a shout from the other side of the room, but Yasha didn’t hear it over his own heartbeat where it was pounding in his ears. Rumlow was turning back, raising his right hand—

Yasha waved his wand at the closest thing he could see—the ridiculously heavy Ancient Runes textbook on Jane Foster’s desk—and thought, _Wingardium Leviosa!_

The book lifted into the air and moved with the arc of his wand, flying straight into Rumlow’s groin.

Everyone could _hear_ the air leaving his lungs as he collapsed to the floor, and more than one of the guys in the room shifted uncomfortably where they stood watching the spectacle. Yasha felt just the tiniest twinge of discomfort in his own nether regions, but it was nothing compared to the satisfaction at having gotten the upper hand on Rumlow. It didn’t matter how long that lasted or how many detentions he had to serve—it had been _worth it_.

“That’s enough,” May addressed them sharply, her eyes lingering only a moment on Yasha before turning to glare at Rumlow where he was curled in a ball on the ground. Her voice turned ice cold as she commented, “I believe my instructions were to use one of three spells, and a Conjunctivitis Curse wasn’t one of them.”

Yasha’s stomach roiled with dread. He hadn’t been able to identify the spell just from the color, nor had he heard it when Rumlow was whispering, but getting _blinded_ hadn’t been what he was expecting. It was only mildly comforting that it was better than he could have expected were they still at Durmstrang, where he probably would have been on the receiving end of a particularly nasty dark spell instead.

From the looks of things, most of the rest of the class found Rumlow’s actions more contemptible than he did—Nat and Steve in particular appeared _outraged_ and out for blood. Even Clint was looking at Rumlow like he’d never seen something quite so vile before in his life, and given the fact that he still hadn’t acknowledged Yasha’s existence, that was really saying something.

“Mr. Smirnov,” May addressed him sharply.

Yasha swallowed hard and stammered, <Y-yes, ma’am?>

She understood that much without needing to cast a Translation Spell, her mouth twitching upward with a smirk. “Those were excellently cast Shield and Levitation Charms. Have you done nonverbal magic before?”

It took a second for Yasha to realize he wasn’t about to be disemboweled on the spot before he could choke out, <No, ma’am.>

“Excellent focus,” she complimented him, turning to the rest of the class. “Perceived threats can help with the process of making a spell work nonverbally. Some of you probably cast spells by accident without words when you were younger and first coming into your powers. Others,” she added with a glance in Rumlow’s direction, “could use a little more work.”

There were a few giggles around the room as Rumlow stumbled to his feet, his face red from pain, embarrassment, and—if Yasha knew him as well as he thought he did—unmitigated rage. Professor May, it appeared, wasn’t moved.

“Mr. Rumlow, we can work more on your attention to instructions during detention for the next two weeks. The rest of you, your homework is to attempt at least one nonverbal spell before we meet again on Thursday. Class dismissed.”

No one needed telling twice—wands were stowed, books were packed, and everyone was out of the room in record time. Nat was still seething, but Jarvis looked like Christmas had come early.

<That may have been the most _satisfying_ thing I’ve ever seen in my life, > he was gushing. <The way he _hit the floor_ —>

<The way he tried to gouge Yasha’s eyes out with magic,> Nat mocked, almost growling in her anger.

<At least he didn’t try using dark magic,> he attempted to reason with her, shrugging a shoulder lightly. <I thought that’s what he was trying to do at first.>

<Just because he didn’t get a _chance_ to doesn’t mean he wasn’t _going_ to, > she countered. Yasha had never seen her angry enough to be shaking—usually she was more the silent, _I’ll Kill You In Your Sleep_ kind of person—but she was literally trembling as she stalked along beside them.  <Honestly, I could just—>

“Hey, wait up!”

At first, Yasha thought they must be talking to someone else, but as he turned his head he saw Sam, Steve, Clint, and T’Challa looking right at them.

_These guys are making it_ really _difficult for me to avoid them._

“Are we still on the air?” Sam asked once they were closer than shouting distance, pointing to Yasha’s earpiece.

<Yes,> he replied with a nod, hoping he didn’t sound as put out with that fact as he was. It appeared he’d unwittingly stumbled upon the _other_ drawback to Tony’s invention.

“Dude, you handed his ass to him like a pro!” exclaimed Sam, grinning like a maniac. T’Challa and Steve seemed to be of the same mind, if a bit more reserved about it, while Clint stood off to the side and stared resolutely in the other direction.

<Uh, thanks. He’s not so hard to take down.> Yasha ran a hand through his hair nervously, cursing inwardly when Steve followed the habitual motion with his eyes. _For fuck’s sake._

Nat scoffed at his answer while Jarvis translated for the others, still too enraged to notice the correlation between Yasha’s nervous habits and Steve’s recognition-based paranoia. “Yeah, he’s easy when he can’t use dark magic,” she qualified in English, knowing Yasha would understand with his earpiece in.

“You guys seriously learn that stuff?” inquired Steve, his face scrunched up in disgust.

“If our professor was to be believed, it is the _most captivating and natural brand of magic_ ,” quoted Jarvis with a distinct air of derision. “Professor Schmidt was a man of _one_ passion.”

Narrowing his eyes, Steve slowly clarified, “He’s the one who went missing, right? This summer?”

“That’s him,” confirmed Nat after taking a deep breath to finally calm herself.

Jarvis added firmly, “And good riddance, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

<No one minds that,> muttered Yasha darkly.

“I thought most of those spells were illegal anyway…?” Sam glanced back at Steve and T’Challa, for a moment the same eleven-year-old Muggle-born who had a million questions about the way the Wizarding world worked.

“Using them in certain cases can be illegal,” nodded T’Challa in affirmation, “but learning them is not.”

“Fucking stupid,” Clint mumbled under his breath just low enough that Yasha had to strain to catch it.

“Anyway, that’s not what we came to talk about.” Sam shook his head and smiled. “Luke’s usually the one who gives us a hand with new spells, but that nonverbal stuff’s kicking my ass and we’ve only been working on it for two days. We were thinking maybe we could start a study group, you know? Work on some spells, try to get a handle on it—if you’re cool with it, that is.”

He addressed the entire group, but Yasha saw the request was really meant for him and gaped back. What the hell had the world come to when they would be coming to _him_ for help with spells?

_And what the hell am I gonna tell them?_ he suddenly realized with a pang of panic. He couldn’t spend time with his old friends—they were already suspicious enough, whether they cared to mention it like Clint or not. Add in the fact that Natasha was on the warpath to find out what the hell was going on with him lately—it would be fooling himself to think that she wouldn’t jump at the opportunity for easier recon—and it was beyond a terrible idea. Her expression was already far more interested than he felt comfortable with.

_Why did Tatiana think coming back to Hogwarts would be a good idea?_

<I-I-I don’t know how much help I would be,> he stumbled over himself after a moment, a million excuses flying through his head. _I have to feed my cat—I’m really busy—I’m practicing for Quidditch in all my spare time—I have to scratch my ass—I just don’t like you guys, no offense—I’m actually a dead guy walking, we don’t do so well with tutoring—_ <I mean, it’ll be hard to teach when we don’t speak the same language.>

_Nailed it._

Steve waved him off immediately once Jarvis translated. “No problem, you got that thing from Stark, right?” He pointed to Yasha’s ear.

Blinking, he just nodded slowly.

“I’ll bet he’s got a bunch of prototype copies he’s itching to find guinea pigs for,” suggested Sam, catching on to his train of thought immediately.

There was a window maybe ten feet away, but they were only on the first floor, so Yasha doubted the fall would kill him from that height. _Shit._

He didn’t have time to think of another excuse, not while everyone was staring at him in anticipation, so he exhaled with a reluctant nod. <Fine, but…maybe after Quidditch tryouts? I have to get back in shape, so I won’t have much spare time.>

It was a boldfaced lie—he’d practice, but not enough to keep him out of the comfort of his depression nest in their dormitory. Regardless of the reason, if he put it off long enough, he thought maybe they might just forget about it.

“Sounds gr—“

Clint cut Steve off mid-sentence to address Yasha for the first time in almost three days. “You’re going out for the team?”

<I mean, I guess?> Yasha replied cautiously, rolling his eyes when Jarvis interpreted that as just a _yes_ because he was an asshole.

“What’s your position?” he demanded.

_Aaaaaand prepare for the Steve Rogers Face of Confused Shock in three…two…one…_

He answered in English since it was the same word anyway. “Beater.”

_There it is. He’ll fucking figure it out if I can’t get these bozos off my back._

“I’m Seeker,” declared Clint without flinching. A second later, there was a tiny, frightening little smirk in the corner of his mouth. “And _captain_. Guess we’ll see how you do next Saturday.”

<Yeah,> sighed Yasha, wondering if it was even worth the trouble now. <Guess so.>

 

***

 

It was too sunny the day of the tryouts, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Yasha had spent a frankly ridiculous amount of time trying to figure out how he was going to change his broom to make it look different under Clint’s watchful eye, eventually settling on a Color-Change Charm that would make it silver with a red racing stripe down the side. It wasn’t the most _inventive_ of disguises, but he was scraping the bottom of the barrel for ideas that wouldn’t alter the performance of his broom, which was _absolutely not going to happen_. He’d gone out to the pitch after classes for the last few days with Jarvis, who had finally put his foot down with Pietro and declined to be put through the embarrassment of flying in front of everyone yet was somehow quite open to helping him practice.

When they said some things were like riding a bike because you never forgot them, they should have said it was like playing Quidditch. Yasha was pretty rusty at first, more from how unfamiliar the range of motion his arm would require now was. After a few stretches, though, he was back in action and almost performing at the level he had been during his last game. Jarvis enchanted a few moving targets to buzz around the Quidditch pitch while Yasha practiced chasing, blocking, and Bludger-ing the hell out of them. By the time they returned to the dormitory each night to change before dinner, Yasha was feeling better than he had in a long time with the endorphins of exercise flowing through his veins.

Winter seemed to notice the difference immediately. She was still hanging all over him, but there was more playing and less idle comfort cuddling now than there had been before. When Saturday came, he even had enough confidence to entrust the care and keeping of his cat to Jarvis, who would be watching from the stands. (He did _not_ , however, entrust to him the toy monkey his parents had gotten for Winter because some things crossed the line and that was practically in another _state_.)

“All right, listen up!” called Clint from the center of the pitch. As captain, he was the only person whose spot on the team was guaranteed already. “You fly two race circuits, then you get an individual trial to show us what you can do. If you were on the team last year, that means you need to book it to keep your spot this year. Now get in the air—two laps, time starts now.”

Yasha came in second only to Angie, who was smaller and therefore faster than he was. He’d overheard her saying she was going for Keeper, though, so he was still the fastest of the Beater potentials. Obviously Clint was well aware of that as well, his face going from almost tauntingly jovial to a pessimistic scowl in no time at all.

When it was Yasha’s turn in the individual trials, everything went off without a hitch. Three other potential players were on their brooms, darting here and there around the pitch in order to avoid him as they tossed around a Quaffle and tried to get it through the goalposts. Not only did Yasha manage to cause at least four fumbles during his timeslot, but he also hit _each player_ at least once: Sam in the arm, Dum Dum in the leg (which threw him off balance and caused him to roll upside down with his token, “Wahoo!”), and Rogue in the back.

By the end of the tryouts, Yasha was feeling pretty good. Until Clint stalked up to him, of course.

“Hell of an arm you’ve got there,” he grunted begrudgingly.

Yasha had taken his earpiece out while he was flying to avoid losing it, so he put on a politely confused expression and made one uneasy thumbs up.

Sighing, Clint shook his head and flashed him a thumbs up of his own before turning his back and stomping back to the locker rooms to change.

That night, the team roster was posted on the common room notice board, and Yasha’s name was at the bottom of the list.

 

***

 

> _Dear Yasha,_
> 
> _I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about what would happen if they saw Winter. Try not to worry too much—just keep repeating what you’ve been saying, be consistent with your story, and I’m sure it will blow over. As long as you don’t tell anyone who you are, they can’t know with any surety. The highest ranking Ministry officials confirmed that you died; any similarities in behavior they see can be easily chalked up to grief. (Please forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but I’m not sure how else to say it.)_
> 
> _Congratulations on making Hufflepuff! I wasn’t familiar with the houses until just recently, but it seems to be an admirable one._
> 
> _I hope you won’t think I’m prying, but I have some advice: don’t fight the tide. By that I mean not to keep yourself away from people you knew just because you can’t be the person you were before. They are still your friends, if in a different way than before._
> 
> _Tatiana_
> 
> _P.S. – You’re welcome._


	6. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tag has been added!

<Wow, you must _really_ owe her, > scoffed Nat upon seeing the admittedly enormous chocolate figure Yasha carried out of Honeydukes. <I don’t think Tatiana could eat that whole thing if she lived to be a hundred.>

Rolling his eyes, Yasha shrugged and put the candy back in the bag. <She loves chocolate—it’ll probably be gone by Christmas.>

<Which means she’ll be in a diabetic coma by New Year’s.>

Jarvis was absolutely no help when Yasha appealed to him with wide eyes, too busy attempting to hide his own smirk.

<You both suck,> grunted Yasha, leading the way down the main stretch of Hogsmeade toward the Three Broomsticks.

Halfway through October, the weather was beginning to turn cool enough that it wasn’t comfortable to walk around the town for too long without wanting to be somewhere inside. Yasha hadn’t really been in the mood to come to town, but Nat and Jarvis had never seen it, the former making it very clear that not going wasn’t an option. Besides, he figured it was a good time to get something for Tatiana and Mikhail in appreciation for their kindness, so he’d picked up a new tie from Gladrags Wizardwear he thought Mikhail would like and stopped in at Honeydukes Sweetshop to get something for Tatiana. He hadn’t expected to walk out with a chocolate carving of a matryoshka doll, but there it was. There was no question he’d be sending them out of Hogwarts instead of the post office in Hogsmeade, where the prices were absolutely ridiculous, and as soon as he was finished they went on the hunt for something warm to drink.

The Three Broomsticks was, of course, packed with students and even a few teachers. Yasha immediately saw Professors Stark and Banner sitting at a table in the far corner, the latter listening with an overwhelmed expression on his face while Stark prattled on about something. Yasha could honestly say he knew that feeling.

It was almost standing room only but for a fairly sizable table towards the front window, so Yasha muttered that he would hold it while Jarvis and Nat figured out what they wanted and left them to examine the menu on the wall. He had only been here once in his third year just before Christmas to do some shopping with Steve for his mom, yet he had no desire to look around and see what he was missing.

If he was being honest, he was exhausted from the first month and a half of school. He’d gone from sitting alone in his room with no one but Winter for company to having to go to class, do his homework, practice spells, appease his friends, go to Quidditch practice, and tutor a group in nonverbal spells. The lattermost was in itself a feat that left him physically and emotionally drained, but as a whole it was like someone was stretching him out as far as he could go and then telling him to run a marathon. The only good thing to be said for it was that the nightmares weren’t so bad with his mind incapable of doing anything other than shutting down when he went to bed. That meant he wasn’t as likely to wake up his three roommates in the middle of the night, which had been embarrassing the handful of times it had happened at the start of the term. Jarvis usually kept his mouth shut about it, but if the lack of teasing on days after he’d had a shitty night was any indication, he was keeping their friends apprised of his sleeping habits. Clint and Sam tended to just ignore it, the latter doing nothing more than shooting him an encouraging smile in the morning before quietly going about his business.

And wasn’t that the bitch of it: they actually _communicated_ with him these days now that Stark had given them a lifetime supply of translating earpieces. There wasn’t much choice when they were on the same Quidditch team and literally lived together, but they’d also had two study sessions that hadn’t been completely miserable. Yasha had been on his best behavior and made sure he didn’t do anything that might seem suspicious or set anyone on edge: he didn’t bring Winter (much as he wanted to most of the time), he kept himself from doing anything that was usually a habit, and he didn’t say anything odd—actually, he generally didn’t say anything at all. Their first session, he’d kept it short and told them it was just a matter of focusing on what they wanted to happen before retreating and letting them give it their all. Most of the questions or comments directed at him afterward could be answered with a nod, a shake of his head, or a noncommittal grunt.

He was hoping it stayed that way because, regardless of what Tatiana had assured him time and again in her letters, there was a wall there that he couldn’t allow himself to pass. He didn’t want to be friends with the ones he used to have. It felt like grave robbing.

Yasha ground his palms into his eyes roughly, willing himself to wake up enough that Nat wouldn’t get on his case about whether he was sleeping all right _again_. It was usually taunting and snarky, but the concern underlying it never failed to make him feel bad. They had better things to be doing than worrying about him.

<The prices here are ridiculous!> Jarvis’s exclamation alerted him to their approach, and Yasha pulled his head out of his hands to smile weakly at them as he and Nat took two seats at the table. They set out three flagons of butterbeer and a plate of hot rolls, neither of which looked appetizing but Yasha took one of each because yeah, it wasn’t cheap.

<They probably figure we’ll ask our parents for more money so we can come down here,> surmised Nat, tearing a roll in half and subtly inhaling the aroma. <They probably make a killing during term.>

Nodding in agreement, Yasha tore off a tiny piece of bread and superfluously chewed it. It was pretty good, all things considered.

<From what I’ve heard,> commented Jarvis, pausing a moment to take a sip of butterbeer and hum in pleasant surprise. <Excellent. Anyway, I heard when we have Apparition lessons in the spring, we’ll be coming into town rather than using a classroom.>

<The shops must love that,> Nat snickered. <I wonder why we can’t just do it at the castle.>

<The wards,> answered Yasha, shrugging when they both looked at him. <No one can Apparate into or out of Hogwarts, so they’d have to take the wards down to teach us there.>

With a hum of acknowledgement, Nat downed half her flagon in one go before shrugging in an incongruously delicate manner. It was Jarvis who spoke, however, his expression slightly more anxious than a moment ago.

<I’m not altogether partial to the idea of Apparition, myself. It’s an uncomfortable sensation from what people have mentioned.>

Yasha and Nat exchanged a quick, assessing glance as they thought that over. Yasha wasn’t a fan either, but it was infinitely better than taking a Portkey.

<It’s sort of like being sucked through a vacuum,> described Nat in what she obviously thought was a consoling manner. <You get over it.>

<Yes. Wonderful.> Somehow, he didn’t sound reassured.

The front door opened, bringing a chill that had Yasha shivering momentarily in his seat as he tried to comfort him. <Honestly, it’s not that bad. It only takes a second, and maybe it’s different when you’re doing it yourself instead of just hanging on.>

Jarvis opened his mouth to say something, his posture slightly more at ease, when Sam appeared behind his chair with a grin and requested, “Mind if we join you guys?”

_We? Shit._

Sure enough, Steve and T’Challa were right behind him with their own flagons of butterbeer. Clint was nowhere to be seen, but then again, Hogsmeade had never been his thing. Saturdays were for sleeping all day, or so he’d said back when Yasha had known him, which meant he’d probably be laid up in the dormitory till dinnertime.

_With Winter. Fuck me sideways._

“Of course,” Jarvis amicably offered, motioning towards the extra seats at their table.

During their study sessions, Wanda and Pietro usually joined them; even though the twins were older, no one specifically taught nonverbal magic at Durmstrang, so they were a bit behind. It often had the effect of diffusing a bit of Yasha’s stress, knowing that there were two other people (three if Skye tagged along) there to catch everyone’s attention and keep it away from him. Now, though, it was just the six of them. He could already feel his heartbeat picking up the pace as T’Challa slipped into the seat on his right, Steve doing the same to his left.

<Where’s Zima?> inquired T’Challa politely in Russian. Yasha didn’t tend to wear his translator when they weren’t in class or working on spells, mostly to avoid conversations whenever possible.

<In our dormitory,> he replied. <I didn’t want her out in the cold.>

T’Challa nodded sagely. <I felt the same about Igorha. The temperature doesn’t bother her, but I wasn’t sure how long we would be gone and didn’t want to take chances.>

<Makes sense.>

The conversation fizzled almost as quickly as it began, leaving them to tune in to the discussion Jarvis and Sam were having about the latest Quidditch practice. Jarvis may not have been on the team, but he was accompanying Yasha to every session nevertheless, probably to offer support when he knew Yasha remained less than confident in his abilities after so many years.

“It’s the principle of the thing!” Jarvis was vehemently defending his opinion that the Snitch shouldn’t be worth so many points. “To have one team play a spectacular game only for the other to be fortunate enough to catch _one ball_ —“

“Trust me, man, it’s not _luck_ when you’ve got Barton on your team,” chuckled Sam. Steve nodded.

“I’ve gotta agree with him there. Clint’s a beast on the field. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him miss.”

Sam thought for a second and snapped his fingers. “No, there was that first game after Christmas our third…year…”

He trailed off, exchanging an uncomfortable glance with Steve before the latter, strangely enough, shot a brief glance in _Yasha’s_ direction. None of the others seemed to catch it, but damned if it didn’t escape Nat’s notice.

“Bad weather?” she asked in a tone that to anyone else would seem innocent. To Yasha, it reeked of curiosity.

“No, uh…” Steve brushed his hair off his forehead unnecessarily the way he always did when he was nervous. “They had to replace one of the Beaters on the team, and the new guy was—“

“A total buffoon,” Sam completed the statement dryly. “Didn’t know a Bludger from his own ass. Clint was like _this_ close to the Snitch—“ He held his forefinger and thumb barely an inch apart. “—when he got nailed. Dude hit him right in the arm and broke it.”

Chuckling, Steve added, “I thought Clint was gonna kill him.”

“I’m surprised he _didn’t_ ,” gasped Jarvis with an incredulous look.

Sam’s eyebrows twitched and he sighed, “We managed to convince him the kid had some big shoes to fill. Didn’t stop Clint from booting him off the team, but at least he was in one piece.”

“Well, hopefully Yasha will be able to fill those shoes,” mused Nat with a smirk. “I would probably have to step in and defend his honor if Barton tried to take him down.”

_Don’t react, you’re not supposed to know what she’s saying, don’t react… Fuck it._

Yasha nudged T’Challa’s arm, pointed at Nat, and then tapped his own ear. Chuckling, T’Challa was kind enough to translate her words verbatim so Yasha could justifiably flip Nat off with both barrels. She rolled her eyes disinterestedly while the other assholes at the table just laughed.

 

***

 

Their last study session before Halloween wasn’t going well at all.

It wasn’t that they weren’t trying—far from it. Yasha just couldn’t understand how almost two months had passed and he was still the only one who could do even the simplest of spells without saying a word. Even Natasha was growing increasingly frustrated with the fact that she couldn’t so much as make a feather _twitch_ nonverbally, used to being quick on the uptake when it came to learning new things. If it weren’t for his frequently unstable mood swings, he was positive she’d be furious with him over how often their teachers complimented his performance. Everyone else was.

<Stabbing the air isn’t going to make any difference,> sighed Yasha for perhaps the thousandth time, grabbing Clint’s hand to stop him from viciously slashing his wand through the air _again_.  <You don’t need to do anything differently than when you cast a normal spell.>

“If that were the case, I’d have it by now,” Clint shot back, readjusting his grip on the wand regardless.

<Use less of your mouth and more of your mind, then.>

Yasha was very much _not_ in the mood for this shit and about one more outburst away from taking his earpiece out and leaving. He had three essays to do, a star chart of the Andromeda Galaxy he’d only half finished that was due tomorrow, and their first Quidditch game was under a week away. Needless to say, he could think of quite a few better uses for his time yet here he was, helping them try to figure out something that none of them seemed to have half a mind for. It wasn’t even like he could explain it in words—he thought the spells, they _happened_. That was all there was to it. When you weren’t used to verbalizing things anymore, it was only natural. It wasn’t like he could simply explain that to the others, though, which meant struggling through other forms of useless encouragement.

“Dude, I _am_ using my mind! You said say it silently, well I’m fucking saying it silently and nothing’s happening. It’s a crock of shit, man.”

<Don’t just say it, _feel it_ ,> countered Yasha. <You want to cast a Stunning Spell without talking, get angry. Get pissed off until you’re about ready to explode and then fucking _think_ it. You want to move a feather, think about how bad you want to move the fucking feather and then _do_ it. Spells require intent. If you’re just thinking the word over and over, that’s not going to do shi— >

There was a sensation like a brick wall slamming into his chest and then he was airborne—there was shouting around the room—and his entire body exploded into pain as it hit the stone floor. Groaning, he struggled to push himself up on his knees with a frown of confusion. He was on the complete opposite side of the room from where he’d started, robes covered in dirt where he was sitting on the floor of the empty classroom they’d been using. When Yasha lifted a hand to his stinging lip, there was blood.

<Are you okay, Yasha?>

_Where did Nat come from?_ She was kneeling beside him, one hand on his shoulder as the other repositioned his chin so she could see his lip, but he didn’t remember her crossing the room. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said she Apparated. She was gently turning his head from side to side, observing him so intently he almost felt embarrassed before a stab of pain shot up the side of his face when she gently brushed his hair away from his cheek.

<Looks like a few scratches, but otherwise I think you’re fine.> And just like that, she was rounding on Clint like a fucking tornado. Her hands were on her hips as she demanded in English, “What the hell was that?”

For once, Clint actually looked afraid as he seemed to shrink from her glare. “Uh…Stunning Spell? He was kinda pissing me off, so…”

“So you blast him across the room,” T’Challa stated with obvious disapproval.

Yasha was quick to wave him off from the floor. His head was still a little too woozy to try getting back on his feet just yet. <It’s fine. I told him to do it.>

Clint blinked and Steve slowly, skeptically repeated, “You…told him to.”

<Yeah. I thought it would be easier if he had something to be angry about to try the spell.> Yasha shrugged, knowing Nat wouldn’t believe the obvious lie that the others were slightly more open to swallowing but hey, it couldn’t be helped. <That was supposed to happen. Right, Clint?>

“Y-yeah, what he said,” agreed Clint emphatically. “And it worked—nonverbal Stunning Spell.”

“Yes, you managed it without a _word_ ,” drawled Nat, eyes narrowed.

Wanda, ever the genius when it came to seeing when a bad situation was about to get worse, stepped up beside Yasha and put a hand on his elbow to inconspicuously _guide_ him off the floor. It wasn’t _helping_ him off the floor because he didn’t _need_ help, _of course_.

<Maybe it’s a good idea to call it a night,> she recommended evenly, smiling at everyone else. <Yasha probably needs a break before he helps the rest of us that way.>

Nervous titters broke out around the room as the others agreed, Pietro clapping Clint on the shoulder in congratulations while the blond continued to stare at Yasha as though he’d never seen him before. Yasha broke eye contact after a moment of discomfort, turning to Wanda and grinning.

<Thanks,> he whispered, rubbing the back of his head subtly.

<You didn’t plan that, did you?> she inquired with a shrewdly raised eyebrow.

Yasha shrugged a shoulder timidly. <Not quite?>

Snorting, Wanda shook her head and smiled genuinely at him before sighing, <Try not to break yourself, Yasha. You still have an entire Quidditch season to make that happen.>

<If he makes it that far,> interjected Nat, who had finished putting away her books and came to retrieve him with an unsmiling face.

_Busted._

<Nat, that’s what I wanted to happen. It’s fine…>

<He attacked you,> she stated matter-of-factly. <I could kill him, but I know you won’t let me.>

<Yeah, no killing is good,> he murmured anxiously, trying to gauge whether she was really pissed or not. No matter how long they knew each other, sometimes it was hard to tell.

After a brief staring contest, she whined in mock disappointment, <But Yasha, they would never find his body!>

Heaving a sigh of relief, Yasha chuckled and put an arm around her shoulders as they bid the others goodnight and headed out into the corridor. <As confident as I am in your ability to commit unsolvable murders, it’s not nice to do that to your friends.>

< _Friends_ , are they?> she repeated, both her eyebrows lifting in a show of surprise.

<I mean, classmates,> corrected Yasha immediately, holding back a flinch at his own misstep. Nat, Jarvis, Skye, and the twins—they were his friends. The others…

<But you said _friends_ —>

Yasha rolled his eyes, backpedaling, <I _meant_ classmates. Come on, Nat, we’re just practicing together, that’s all. >

Because the world seemed incapable of giving him a break for _five fucking minutes_ , Clint chose that moment to jog up behind them and breathlessly call, “Wait up a sec!”

Nat’s smirk was bordering on insufferable, which made Clint the lesser of two evils. At least he hadn’t taken his earpiece out yet.

Yasha drew to a halt, turning to watch Clint come skidding up to them, eyes darting from him to Nat in poorly concealed reluctance. Clearing his throat, Yasha aimed a pointed look in Nat’s direction that she ignored as long as she could before rolling her eyes.

<Fine, I see when I’m not wanted,> she sighed, raising her hands in defeat before heading down the stairs in the direction of the Slytherin common room. <Just don’t curse him, Barton—I know where you sleep.>

Clint gulped, eyes wide, but Yasha reassured him, <She’s not as scary as she looks.>

“Not her looks I’m worried about.”

<Good point.>

They stood in awkward silence for a minute while Clint stared resolutely at the ground and Yasha waited. They hadn’t been alone together for a second since the first day of school, not even in the locker rooms or during Quidditch practice; Clint tended to avoid Yasha whenever he could. They hadn’t had any further outbursts, about Winter or anything else, but it was obvious that Clint was uncomfortable with him. Whether that was because he still thought Yasha might be Hydra or he had the same suspicions that Steve occasionally seemed to, Yasha wasn’t quite sure. All he knew was that it took a lot for Clint to come after him, and he wasn’t about to make it harder than it already was.

When the pause began to get a little ridiculous, Clint took a deep breath and seemed to gather himself before looking Yasha in the eye and demanding, “Why’d you do that?”

Blinking, Yasha asked, <Do what?>

“Lie. To everyone—your friends…” Clint shrugged, eyes narrowed. “You could’ve told them.”

There was a moment where he wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. Sure, he could’ve told them—Nat would have been furious and probably cursed Clint into next week; his other friends would probably have told their classmates to go fuck themselves and find another way to learn nonverbal spells. What would that have accomplished, though?

<Were you _trying_ to hurt me? > he ended up inquiring rather than answering Clint’s question. Clint appeared stunned by the turn of the conversation.

“Why the hell would I want to hurt you? We’ve got a game next weekend. The last thing I want is one of my Beaters out of commission.”

_Well, that’s comforting. Kinda._

Yasha shrugged as if Clint’s statement should explain everything. <Then what’s the point of upsetting everyone? It was an accident—I made you angry, you reacted. You even did it without saying the spell, which was great, by the way. Just don’t do it again or I can pretty much guarantee Nat will kill you before any of the others can get close enough to stop her.>

Clint snorted, but there was no humor in it. His eyes were entirely serious and a little bit assessing as they remained locked on Yasha’s. “Thanks, man.”

<Sure.>

Thankfully, they didn’t have the opportunity to descend into uncomfortable silence again when Sam poked his head out of the classroom and yelled that he wasn’t about to drag Clint’s shit to the common room for him.

“All right, I’m coming, you asshole!” Clint yelled back, rolling his eyes. He gave Yasha a little half wave as he walked back to retrieve his things, calling, “Remember, Quidditch practice every night this week—don’t be late,” before he vanished inside.

Yasha stood rooted to the spot before shaking his head and chuckling quietly to himself. As he turned to head down to the common room, he couldn’t help mulling over the conversation in his head. What he’d said to Nat was true: their classmates _weren’t_ their friends. Still, it helped to know they didn’t hate him either.

 

***

 

Halloween was the same major affair at Hogwarts as always: the corridors were decorated, the professors dressed a bit more festively than usual, and they had the feast to look forward to that evening. It was always a bit of a drag when it fell in the middle of the week, but compared to Durmstrang, where they hadn’t celebrated much of anything except Asshole of the Month, it made for a pretty nice change.

They got to take a break from their normal coursework—which had taken a turn for the _insanely difficult_ recently since they were N.E.W.T. students and apparently _needed to learn that magic isn’t all sparkles and fairy dust_ —to pursue more enjoyable ventures. In a move utterly uncharacteristic for Professor Pym, they were invited to bring a pet to Transfiguration (one was provided if you didn’t have any of your own) and they worked on transforming various daily items into Halloween costumes for the animals. By the time they finished, Winter was decked out in a witch’s hat, a black dress with tiny pumpkins embroidered on it, and even had a little broom to round out the ensemble. She hadn’t worn it long with the baleful mewling she was doing, but it was still pretty adorable while it lasted.

And it was infinitely better than Steve’s school-provided rat, who was the saddest looking Pikachu that Yasha had ever seen.

By the time the feast rolled around, everyone was in high spirits. They sat at their house tables as tradition dictated, and Yasha was actually surprised to find himself joined not only by Jarvis, but Sam and Clint as well. The latter had gone back to his usual silent treatment since their conversation a couple of days earlier, but it didn’t have the same sullen, suspicious quality to it. Yasha counted that as a victory, albeit a small one.

<What the bloody hell is this…?> Jarvis murmured when dessert appeared on the table, examining a bowl of small triangular candies colored in orange, yellow, and white.

<Candy corn,> replied Yasha, steering clear of it. He’d always loved sweets, but he preferred his candy to taste like more than _straight sugar_. A woman’s voice also echoed in his head, tutting at him and saying _you’ll get cavities from that nonsense, darling_ , but he shook it off.

_Not tonight._

Jarvis raised an eyebrow at him and scoffed, <Preposterous. These look _nothing_ like corn. >

<Take it up with the Americans,> he grunted.

It only took one nibble for Jarvis to make the executive decision that candy corn was imported from one of the deepest circles of Hell, washing his mouth out with pumpkin juice before serving himself a double helping of raspberry tart instead. After managing to eat an entire helping of shepherd’s pie—which was no mean feat, _thank you very much_ —Yasha had played it safe with just one small sliver of pumpkin pie and rolled his eyes at Jarvis’s exaggerated show of relief.

“Is that all you’re eating?” inquired Sam with a frown, pointing at Yasha’s plate. He’d been throwing out barbs for most of the feast, all of them to the effect that Yasha would be too skinny to hold a Beater’s club if he didn’t down some serious protein.

Jarvis translated since Yasha wasn’t wearing his earpiece, and the latter rolled his eyes good-naturedly. <I told you, I don’t eat much.>

“It’s probably a residual effect of the sustenance we were required to stomach at Durmstrang,” commiserated Jarvis once he’d relayed the message. “They were very concerned with our health, less so with how the food tasted.”

It wasn’t a total lie, nor was it the actual reason Yasha had a limited appetite even on the best of days—which Jarvis was probably very well aware of by now. He wisely decided to let the others believe whatever the fuck they wanted.

Shaking his head, Clint mumbled through a mouthful of cobbler, “I’onno how y’guys lived lik’at.”

The look on Jarvis’s face at Clint’s abhorrent table manners was priceless, but he managed a stoic nod of agreement as he delved back into his own dessert.

Thankfully, the discussion distracted Sam from further critiquing Yasha’s eating habits, and he was able to let the rest of the noise and conversation in the Great Hall flow around him. It was calming, in a sense: these were the moments where no one had any expectations. He didn’t have to strictly adhere to his determination to be a certain person and not be another; he didn’t have to worry about the mind numbing quandary regarding whether his old friends were becoming new friends and how to avoid it before it was too late (in spite of Nat’s attempts to do the exact opposite). All he had to do was sit there and _exist_. That was hard enough some days, so it was nice to have nothing else piled on top.

He was present—that was all anyone asked.

Yasha was poking at the crust of his pie, trying to force himself to finish the last two bites, when someone screamed.

Everyone’s head turned toward the far side of the Great Hall, where one of the third year Ravenclaws was standing on her seat pointing tremulously at the ground. Frowning, Yasha stood up with most of the rest of his table and peered over to see a tarantula bigger than Winter creeping toward her.

They had no time to wonder where it had come from or for the professors to come deal with it, however, before there was another shriek, this time from the Gryffindor table where a ghost with a severed head was reaching out for a first year with blank eyes.

There was laughing, there was panicking, and worst of all—there were _more_.

Before anyone could figure out what the hell was happening, most of the jack-o’-lanterns blew out and the Great Hall was filled to the brim with every manner of monster: giant snakes, herds of flesh-eating slugs, violent spirits, rabid dogs. There were corpses strewn here and there all over the ground, the dimmed lights making them more grotesque as shadows seemed to crawl down their faces. Some students were huddled on the floor, crying over the bodies of dead animals that Yasha could only assume were beloved pets, while others were screaming in the face of Inferi reaching for them with claw-like, skeletal hands.

An earsplitting crash reverberated through the room as a gigantic octopus with a face like a skull fell from the sky and landed in the center of the Hufflepuff table, its many tentacles lashing out and knocking plates of food and goblets to and fro. For a second, Yasha was positive that it was all an illusion—that this would all disappear and nothing would be wrecked.

The tentacle that flew sideways and smacked him in the chest, however, was undeniably _real_.

He went flying back into the Slytherins sitting behind them, Jarvis and Angie sent sprawling as well. His tailbone was aching where he landed on the floor near Nat and Pietro, and his friends knelt down beside him.

<What the fuck is this?!> cried Pietro over the deafening sounds of terror echoing around the large room.

Yasha could only shake his head, trying to see through the mass of bodies to the High Table. Most of the teachers had descended and were trying whatever spells they could to banish the monsters from the hall to no avail. Even Fury had his wand raised and an utterly _done_ expression on his face as he sent spell after spell at a cobra that cornered a fifth year.

A yelp behind him had Yasha whipping around to see—

_No… It’s not real, it can’t be…_

Wanda’s eyes were completely lifeless where they stared blankly up at the ceiling, her limbs sprawled this way and that at unnatural angles. Her dark hair was splayed out chaotically underneath her, and there was a look of sheer terror on her motionless face.

But that couldn’t be right because Wanda was _right there_ on the other side of the Great Hall at the Gryffindor table.

<It’s not real!> he shouted to Pietro, whose eyes were frozen on Wanda’s corpse beside them. Yasha grabbed the front of his robes and yanked until they locked eyes, repeating firmly, <It’s not real. None of it is real. Wanda’s over there—she’s fine.>

Pietro sputtered incoherently, his eyes hunting frantically until he spotted his sister—alive and well—and collapsed against the table.

The fake Wanda vanished into thin air in the same instant, almost as though his realization had banished her. Yasha noticed that the same was happening elsewhere around them, students staring down the monsters until they popped out of existence and trying to get their grief-stricken, horrified friends to do the same.

_It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real_ , Yasha repeated to himself, an internal mantra to keep his heart rate from skyrocketing even further.

Something pulled weakly on the hem of his robes, and he vacantly tried to brush it aside as he watched the monstrous octopus disappear only to yank his hand back with a hiss. When he looked down at his fingers, they were blackened and burned.

There was a tug on his robes again.

As soon as his head turned, Yasha felt as though everything inside him was set ablaze with fear even as he heard Nat’s gasp of shock beside him.

There were three bodies on the ground by his feet, and they were burning. They had no identifiable features, not even eyes in their skeletal sockets; tattered flesh hung off their bones like stringy wax and stuck to the floor, stretching and tearing off as they dragged themselves across the flagstones. The smell of rotting, burning skin pervaded the Great Hall, and Yasha felt himself gagging. It wasn’t only because of the odorous stench, though: all three of the bodies were reaching out to him, grabbing at the hem of his robes as if begging for help—or begging for him to join them.

Of all the screams he’d heard that night, none of them were as loud as the one issuing from his own mouth.

Hands grabbed his arms even as he irrationally fought against them, dragging him backwards along the floor away from outstretched fingers and scorching flesh. He distantly noticed that the edge of his robes had caught fire, that Nat stomped them out before turning to put herself between him and the scene of every nightmare—sleeping or waking—he’d had for months. Her mouth was moving, but there were no words reaching him. He couldn’t stop screaming, couldn’t stop staring over her shoulder straight into where the eyes of the corpses should have been. They were still reaching, trying to claw their way along the floor towards him with a desperation unique to the dying who knew their time was waning fast.

And then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone.

The lights were back on. The monsters had all vanished. The screaming had stopped—except for Yasha’s.

Eyes were on him, he could feel it, but he’d lost all control of himself as he leaned to the side and vomited on the floor. Tears streamed down his cheeks, burning against his skin as if they, too, were on fire. Nat’s voice was in his ears, not that he could make out the words over the sound of his harsh breathing as he hyperventilated in a heap on the floor.

There was no telling how much time passed while he struggled to breathe, feeling like he might just pass out, but he gradually became aware of the fact that he was surrounded on all sides. Blinking through his tears and grief, he saw Nat in front of him, using a cloth napkin to wipe the residual vomit from his mouth while speaking in soft, soothing tones. Jarvis and Pietro were on either side of him, hands on his shoulders and rubbing up and down his back silently. Skye was kneeling on the ground a few feet away, her cheeks wet as she watched him with obvious fear in her eyes. He didn’t see Wanda, but someone’s hand was stroking through his hair gently, so he assumed she was right behind him.

Sounds reached him next: other people were crying besides him, thank goodness. As his awareness spread beyond his small circle of friends, he could see other groups huddled together, calming each other as best they could. Teachers were scattered about, attempting to help the more severe cases.

And in the middle of the chaos stood Professor Fury, glaring stormily down at a wan Tony Stark.

Yasha’s mind wasn’t moving as quickly as it usually did, but the pieces were starting to come together regardless, forming a picture that he didn’t want to see.

This was all his fault. He’d told Tony the dementors were a bad idea, so he’d done something ten times worse.

His stomach roiled again and Yasha heaved, bile coming up and sticking painfully in the back of his throat. Someone— _Wanda_ —shushed him gently, petting his head; Nat pulled his face back to look at her and wiped his mouth again. It had been a long time since he’d felt so taken care of—and so humiliated.

Fury took his eyes off Tony just long enough to glare around the Great Hall and announce, “I want everyone in their common rooms _now_. Prefects, escort anyone who needs the hospital wing to Madam Bishop.”

For the first time in Yasha’s memory, the order wasn’t immediately obeyed. Prefects and teachers began ushering students out of the Great Hall, which was a royal mess with food and dishware strewn all over the place, and sending them on their way to their respective common rooms. Some students had been injured in their panic or by their personal demons and were limping out the door with a friend or two; others were still severely emotionally compromised and needed to be helped for other reasons.

Yasha fell into the second category as Jarvis and Pietro each held him firmly under his arms and hauled him off the ground. He wanted to tell them he could walk on his own, but his entire body was trembling and his legs turned to jelly the second he tried to put any weight on them. An extra set of hands took hold of his waist from behind as they turned and began to lead him outside.

As soon as they hit the door, Sam and Darcy stopped them with matching expressions of compassionate distress. Darcy hadn’t said two words to Yasha in the time he’d spent back at Hogwarts, but she was uncharacteristically quiet as she now recommended, “I think he needs the hospital wing.”

<No, no,> he croaked, his voice refusing to go above a whisper.

<Yasha,> prodded Nat, but he shook his head vehemently. Or at least as vehemently as he could without giving himself vertigo and vomiting again.

<Bed. J-j-j-just wanna go t’bed.>

He could tell Nat wanted to argue with him, but Jarvis quietly interjected, <I’ll keep an eye on him.>

It took a minute or two for her to agree, eventually sighing in defeat and pecking Yasha on the cheek, which had to be gross when he’d literally been crying and vomiting all over himself but she didn’t give any sign of being disgusted.

Then they were moving. Pietro disappeared before they got to the door beside the Great Hall and Clint took his place, supporting his weight along with Jarvis until they made it through the common room and back to the dormitory. They deposited him gently onto his bed, Winter making tiny noises of distress the whole time, and Jarvis vanished briefly. When he came back, there were two glasses in his hands, one of water and one empty. He instructed Yasha to spit first, then drink, and he obeyed without question.

If he ended up slopping more water over his front than he managed to drink with how badly his hands were shaking, neither Jarvis nor Clint mentioned it.

Time was fragmented as he drifted in and out of awareness, the adrenaline bleeding away and leaving him utterly empty. One minute he was sitting on his bed with Winter nudging his limp hand with her head, the next he was dressed in nothing but his boxers and was being prodded to get under the covers that Jarvis was holding aloft. Then he was between the sheets and the lights were extinguished. Clint was snoring and Jarvis was tossing and turning in bed and Sam’s was empty. All the while, Yasha stared at the ceiling.

When he closed his eyes, he saw fire and death. The details were scorched into his retinas—his skin was itching where he’d seen the burning flesh of his family minutes—hours—days—millennia ago. His breathing sped up and he couldn’t take it anymore. Yasha threw the covers off him, scratching at his skin and searching through the darkness of the dormitory to find whatever was making that terrible sound until he realized it was him. The whimpers were coming from his own mouth, and he was powerless to stop them as he scratched at his burning flesh where it was tearing away from his bones and being set on fire by the air itself—

<—sha, wake up! Yasha, come on now, wake up!>

A pair of hands seized his wrists, yanking his hands away from where they were gouging into the flesh of his arms. Yasha blinked open his eyes to see Jarvis, pale and frightened and gaping down at him. Across the room, Clint was sitting up in bed with wide eyes—it was _impossible_ to wake Clint at _any_ hour of the day or night, but somehow he’d managed it.

Something was tugging at his wrists, and Yasha turned back to see that Jarvis was trying unsuccessfully to get him to his feet. <Come on, come with me,> he kept repeating in as calm a voice as he could manage when it looked like he’d been freaking out not a minute earlier.

Even though Yasha wasn’t sure where they were going, he didn’t argue. His legs nearly gave out, but he managed to remain upright, leaning heavily on Jarvis. Clint was out of bed a second later, inserting himself under Yasha’s arm on the other side as he had earlier. They exited the dormitory to find that there were still people up in the common room; a girl he vaguely recognized as being a seventh year was weeping on the sofa while two of her friends tried to console her. Before they could hear what was going on, they were out the door, the stone floor cold beneath Yasha’s bare feet. No one said a word, not even Professor Erskine when they passed him on their way up the grand staircase despite probably being out _way_ past their curfew.

Forever and no time at all passed and then they reached the hospital wing. Jarvis and Clint helped him onto one of the few empty beds left in the middle of the room, the former staying with him while Clint went to wake up Madam Bishop. She looked like she hadn’t even been asleep when she followed him back, and Yasha distantly wondered if she’d been up dealing with the aftermath of the feast all this time.

The nurse examined him carefully, her hands ghosting over his skin as she peered in his eyes and checked his pulse. He couldn’t feel her touch, though; the only sensation he knew was that of his quivering limbs and the bumps rising on his skin that weren’t only due to the chill in the air.

Jarvis exchanged a few hushed words with Madam Bishop once she’d finished her cursory inspection. Yasha couldn’t hear them. He kept getting distracted by the ghost of burning corpses that constantly appeared in the corner of his vision every time he tried to shift his attention—outside the doors, beside the other bed, in the shadows of Madam Bishop’s office. They were always there, always reaching for him, whether his eyes were open or closed.

His hand lifted, yet not of his own accord. Blinking, he rolled his head on the pillow—when did he lie down?—to see Madam Bishop pressing a vial of purple potion into the hand that wasn’t bandaged—when did she bandage his hand? He had the vaguest memory of burnt and blackened fingers that had nothing on the ghosts crawling toward him from the inferno, but it was quickly overcome by the image of scorched, skeletal hands reaching—reaching—

“Come on, drink this,” Madam Bishop whispered, helping him prop his head up and guiding the vial to his lips.

It went down easy—easier than food or water or smoke—and by the time his head fell back on the pillow, the hospital wing was dissolving into a blissful, empty abyss.


	7. Friends

Yasha woke slowly. He was so warm and comfortable that he fought the sensation, trying desperately to burrow back into the quiet solitude of sleep. His mind, however, wasn’t having any of it even as it struggled to trudge through the sludgy murkiness of waking.

Groaning, Yasha rolled over and hissed in pain when his fingers were caught between his side and the mattress. When he opened his eyes, he saw his hand was bandaged and frowned— _what the hell…?_

That was when he realized he wasn’t in his dormitory. There was a curtain around his bed, so he couldn’t see the rest of the room; it was quiet enough for him to realize he was in the hospital wing, though. There was a moment of confusion where he couldn’t recall how he’d gotten here before the events of the previous night came flooding back to him. The feast, the visions—were they visions or were they _real_?—the panic. He remembered Jarvis and Clint helping him back to their dormitory, but that was the last thing he knew with any clarity. Whatever happened next was encapsulated in flashes of emotions rather than any real memories of events. He assumed he must have been in enough of a state for them to think he needed help, whether physical or psychological. The thought made his face flush hot with embarrassment.

“Good, you’re awake.”

Starting, Yasha’s head whipped to the side to see Madam Bishop coming around the edge of the curtain. The nurse looked dead on her feet, probably from being up half the night taking care of people like Yasha if anyone else had as rough a time as he did, but there was still a slight smile on her face as she set a bottle of potion and a goblet on his bedside table.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, putting a hand on his forehead.

Yasha thought for a moment, mentally cataloging his bodily functions, before slowly replying, <Feel funny.>

“Oh, right. One second.” Madam Bishop plucked her wand from her pocket and touched it to both Yasha’s and her own throat in turn. “Try again,” she prompted, her voice echoing through his head in Russian behind the English she spoke this time.

<I feel funny,> he repeated obediently, rubbing his uninjured hand across his stinging eyes.

“You probably will for a bit. You’ve got a fever,” she explained right away. “Plus some nasty burns on your hand. You should’ve come straight up here instead of back to your dormitory, just so you know. Burns aren’t something you mess with.”

Yasha mumbled out an apology as she turned her back on him and opened the potion, pouring a portion into the goblet.

“I put a salve on it, so that should be good as new in no time. You’ll just need to keep the bandage on for a couple of days so the skin doesn’t get irritated as it grows back in.”

 _Grows back in?_ he thought, puzzled. He hadn’t realized it was that bad the night before, but admittedly he’d been paying attention to other things instead.

“This will help with the fever,” continued Madam Bishop, handing him the goblet. “Every last drop. It tastes like crap, but you’ll live.”

Yasha put the goblet to his lips and sniffed the potion—it smelled like honey. Shrugging, he tipped his head back to take a sip.

 _That’s definitely not honey._ The taste was bad enough to choke him at first, and he shoved the goblet away with a pinched expression. Under Madam Bishop’s stern gaze, though, he had no choice but to hold his nose and down the rest. The bitterness didn’t lessen, and to add insult to injury, there were even _chunks_ at the bottom.

He remembered having to take potions when he was sick as a kid, but they’d _never_ had lumpy chunks of goop at the bottom. _Fucking gross._

<What time is it?> he inquired once he’d finished every disgusting drop as directed, handing the goblet back to Madam Bishop. There was no window over his bedstead, so he couldn’t quite tell the angle of the sun.

“Almost eleven.”

A spasm shot through his lungs with sudden dread. He would already have missed Defense Against the Dark Arts and their morning break, which meant… <I’m supposed to be in Divination!> he exclaimed, throwing back his covers before a surprisingly heavy hand shoved him right back down on the bed.

Madam Bishop glared down at him and shook her head. “No way, Smirnov. You’re here all day.”

<But—>

“Nope. If your fever’s gone by tonight, which it probably will be, I’ll let you go back to your dormitory so you can be in class tomorrow. I’ve already let your teachers know you won’t be coming today, so you can get the work from a friend.”

She shot him one last _Don’t Argue With Me_ look when he opened his mouth to do just that before taking up his goblet and vanishing behind the curtain.

Sighing, Yasha let his head drop against the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t mind staying in bed all day and avoiding his classmates, but he’d much rather do it in the privacy of his own dormitory. A curtain wasn’t really going to cut it, especially when the memories of the night before were playing on repeat in his head.

He still couldn’t figure out what had happened. It was one of Tony’s stupid pranks, that much was certain, but how had he managed all that? It was impossible that he’d be able to magically create a personal demon for most of the students there in general, but what he’d conjured for Yasha? There was no way he could have known what was in his head. There was no way he was privy to the dreams and nightmares where Yasha was trapped in a burning house with his family reaching out for him or he climbed into a coffin to join them when they were already gone. He desperately wanted to know how the sick, twisted workings of his mind had been put on display.

Out in the open, for most of the school and all of his friends to see.

 _They probably think I’m fucking nuts_ , bemoaned Yasha silently, grabbing his hair and yanking hard. _I just can’t catch a break._

Yasha rolled onto his side, careful not to mess up his bandages this time, and glared at the curtain as though he might be able to set it on fire with just his gaze. That wasn’t something he wanted anyone else to see _ever_. Hell, he never wanted to see it himself, inside _or_ outside his head. The next time he saw Tony Stark, he thought he might just curse him. Nothing serious, just something nice and humiliating so the fucker knew how it felt.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, fuming and wallowing in equal measures, before there was a rustling sound behind him.

“Yasha? You awake?”

It took every ounce of willpower not to groan out loud because, wouldn’t you know it, the universe wasn’t looking to cut him any slack just yet. He briefly considered pretending to be sleeping, but he knew his breathing was too uneven for that and turned onto his back in spite of himself to see Steve peeking tentatively around the curtain.

Thank goodness they’d given him a set of pajamas at some point the night before or this would have been more awkward than it already would be.

“Hey,” he croaked in English. His throat was raw and sore, probably after all the screaming he’d done the night before.

Steve smiled as he came around the curtain, holding up two earpieces and _Yasha’s goddamn cat_. The second Winter caught a glimpse of him, she went crazy in Steve’s arms until he dropped her on the mattress, pouncing on his chest to nuzzle and lick his face frenetically. Huffing out something that sounded like a laugh, Steve handed Yasha one of the purple devices before donning his own.

<What are you doing here?> inquired Yasha once his earpiece was activated, stroking Winter’s fur and holding her tightly to his chest.

Shrugging, Steve explained, “Sam said Zima was worried about you, so we thought she could use a visit. Not sure we’re allowed to have pets in here, though, so keep it to yourself.” He had that same mischievous gleam in his eyes he used to get when they were kids, and Yasha snorted involuntarily.

<Yeah, but why are _you_ here? > As soon as the words left his lips, Steve’s face fell a fraction and he started backpedaling. <I mean, Sam or Clint could have brought her up.>

Steve’s expression cleared a little as he nodded thoughtfully. It wasn’t that Yasha resented his presence per se, but of all his old friends, Steve was the one he avoided more than anyone. It wasn’t just a matter of recognizing certain mannerisms with him—they’d known each other since they were _born_. If anyone was going to give away the game, it would be him, so Yasha kept his distance as much as possible. He helped Steve during their study groups and they’d had a few brief conversations (not that they were really long enough to be called even that) about Quidditch when the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors passed each other on the field between practices, but that was about it. There was no reason for Steve to go out of his way to bring Winter up here, not when he had plenty of other friends and a girlfriend to occupy his time with.

It appeared as though Steve was thinking along the same lines, his expression turning a bit bashful as he brushed his hair out of his face.

“Well, they were planning on checking in after classes were done for the day,” he hedged, his eyes alternating between Yasha and the floor. “I just thought you might like some company.”

Yasha stared at him in silence, blinking a few times. It felt like he couldn’t possibly be hearing him right, or it was merely an excuse to butt into Yasha’s business, but the smile on Steve’s face told another story. He didn’t feel bad for Yasha even though he was probably one of the many people who had seen what he’d been so afraid of in the Great Hall. He wasn’t there to show him pity or ask nosy questions about what the hell was fucking wrong with him. His offer was entirely genuine: he honestly just wanted to be there as moral support and company to an acquaintance who needed it. If ever there was a moment where Yasha was able to see little Steve Rogers in the hulking beefcake he’d become, it was that one.

After a minute, Yasha felt his mouth twitch into a small, grateful smile. <Thank you.>

 

***

 

By the time Yasha was released from the hospital wing, dinner was almost over. He had no appetite regardless, so he made his way slowly back through the mostly empty corridors down to the common room.

Steve had stayed with him through his lunch period and most of their afternoon break, filling him in on what they’d been doing in the classes they shared and complaining a bit about the ones they didn’t. Yasha had just listened raptly, petting Winter and occasionally asking a question. They talked about the upcoming game between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, trading jeers and talking strategies. They had been so absorbed in the conversation that they didn’t realize how much time had passed, nor did Yasha have even one second for his mind to wander to any of the dark thoughts that were usually hovering in the corners of his brain. It was the most _normal_ he’d felt since he was thirteen years old, not that he wasn’t still emotionally drained as soon as Steve cradled Winter in his arms and left to take her back downstairs before his last class of the day.

The rest of Yasha’s afternoon was mostly spent alternating between dozing and speaking with his friends as they filtered in before dinner. Skye had brought him a little teddy bear with a red, star-shaped balloon reading, _Get Better Soon!_ He’d teased her a little for it while she insisted she had nothing better to do in Transfiguration, but he couldn’t help glancing back at the stuffed animal every now and again. It made him smile.

Nat had practically torn off the face of the hospital wing with her arrival, glaring daggers at him. He couldn’t even get out a greeting before she was ranting in rapid-fire Russian about what an idiot she was for not taking him to the hospital wing like she’d wanted to and how she was going to kill Tony Stark the first opportunity that presented itself. Yasha didn’t even try to interrupt her tirade, waiting until she’d talked herself out before calmly reassuring her that he was fine and it wasn’t worth going to Azkaban over. She’d distinctly disagreed, but she cooled off enough to have a mostly normal conversation, complete with informing him that she and Jarvis had all the notes and assignments he would need to make up.

He’d waited until _after_ she left to flip her off for that one.

Needless to say, as he strolled through the hallways and down the grand staircase, the last thing Yasha wanted to do was talk to anyone else—he’d met his quota for the day.

Unfortunately, Tony Stark had other plans. He was just emerging onto the stairs from the first floor corridor when he caught sight of Yasha and stopped dead in his tracks. His face was entirely void of the usual arrogant smirk; he wasn’t even wearing his thoughtful _genius-invention-in-progress_ expression. Instead his face was still pale the way it had been after the feast the night before, and he had a hard time maintaining eye contact as he half waved in greeting.

Yasha mirrored the gesture before continuing on his way.

“Wait.”

_Fuck. Knew I wasn’t getting outta that one so easy._

Sighing, Yasha turned around and raised an eyebrow, unconsciously folding his arms over his chest defensively. All thoughts of cornering Tony and asking what the fuck he’d done completely flew out of his head, leaving nothing but the desire to get back to his dormitory and sleep for a year uninterrupted. Tony, for all that he was a terrible judge of how others were feeling, seemed to sense it and scratched the back of his neck. He opened his mouth once or twice, rolled his eyes at himself, and poked a purple earpiece into place. (Yasha was really starting to hate those things—it meant he had to _talk_.)

“Look, uh…” Tony cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m not usually one to make apologies, so you’d better be listening carefully ‘cause it probably won’t happen again. Sorry about what happened last night. I, uh… I didn’t expect all _that_.”

For a second, Yasha considered just nodding and walking away. He forced his feet to remain planted to the stone step, however, and narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t going to accept the apology, at least not yet, but he wouldn’t make this _too_ difficult on Tony when he was well aware that getting an expression of regret from him really didn’t happen. Ever.  <How _did_ you do it? >

A little glimmer of something flashed through Tony’s eyes, but he quashed the excitement as much as he could to casually explain, “It’s a new invention I came up with—the Bogus Boggart. It does the same thing as a real boggart: it sees you, it shows you your greatest fear, all that jazz. One time use, and you don’t need to know any spells to get rid of it. Prank your friends, they figure out it isn’t real, then poof—gone.”

As he outlined his prank, Yasha felt as though someone was squeezing his heart and refused to let go. It made sense now: Tony hadn’t made those illusions appear the way he did when Yasha was in his first year, but he’d figured out a way to make a device that would be able to do it on its own. After all, what else did he fear more than the idea that his family had died calling his name, wishing he was there with them? What more was there to fear than the feeling that your family might be angry that you hadn’t been there for them when they needed you—that you weren’t there and maybe if you were, you could have done something to stop what happened? The thoughts whirled around in his head, making him dizzy, and it was a moment before he realized Tony had stopped speaking abruptly.

He appeared to realize he was starting to sound a little too excited and shrugged, gazing down at the floor. “Didn’t think everyone would be scared of such weird shit, you know?”

<Isn’t that the point of being afraid? That it isn’t always rational?> Yasha pointed out, his voice hard and unforgiving.

Scoffing, Tony exclaimed, “Yeah, but _giant octopuses_? Or is it octopi? I can never remember. Anyway, seriously, who the hell is scared of stuff like that?”

Yasha stared at him, waiting for the regret to slot back into place. It took a minute and then— _yup, there it is._

“Anyway, long story short, sorry for scaring the crap out of you and half the school. Won’t happen again.”

_Wait, something’s not right here…_

Narrowing his eyes, Yasha incredulously demanded, <Did Fury tell you to apologize?>

“To every single student in the school no matter how fucking long it takes,” deadpanned Tony in affirmation.

<And he won’t let you make an announcement at breakfast or something.>

“Nope.”

<Smart man.>

“Fuck you, Yasha.”

 

***

 

<I’m going to find out who decided nonverbal spells could be a _thing_ and slowly remove their intestines from their body. >

<Has anyone ever told you you’re one scary bitch?> inquired Pietro nonchalantly, earning a smirk from Nat where she was trying (and failing miserably) to summon her textbook from the other side of the room.

Just about everyone in their study group had mastered Levitation Charms without speaking the incantation and moved on to Summoning Charms, which took twice the level of concentration: focusing on the item and focusing on the incantation in your head. Perhaps it would have been better to try something different, but Yasha wasn’t about to turn back now that they’d started and the others didn’t seem prepared to admit defeat just yet.

“This is impossible,” frowned Sam. He was holding onto his wand with both hands as if that would count towards his level of concentration, but his quill hadn’t moved an inch in ten minutes.

“Aw, come on, man,” taunted Clint, easily summoning his fifth cupcake (freshly stolen from the kitchens). “You’ve just gotta focus.”

“In a second, Barton, I’mma focus my wand right up your ass. Shut the hell up, man.”

Clint grinned in response, taking an exaggerated bite of his dessert and chewing with his mouth open so the rest of them had to witness the nastiness. After he’d managed the _totally intended_ Stunning Spell on Yasha, it appeared to release some kind of block and he was able to cast just about anything nonverbally on the first try these days. It had taken a few attempts to get the Summoning Charm right, but food could be a powerful motivator, so it didn’t take _too_ long.

“You know, it’s a shame you won’t be able to summon the Snitch tomorrow as well as you do those cupcakes,” observed Peggy with saccharine sweetness. She didn’t ordinarily come to their sessions—in fact, they frequently teased her when she did show up about being in the presence of royalty since she was Head Girl—but she’d made an exception tonight to watch the hilarity of _Steve_ attempting nonverbal magic, which ended up looking more like constipation depending on the spell.

Rolling his eyes, Clint flipped her off and returned to summoning his next treat.

To be honest, Yasha had been surprised that Clint allowed them to practice tonight at all. They’d been on the Quidditch pitch perfecting their performance for tomorrow’s game every waking moment after class. Yasha had thought his stint in the hospital wing would have gotten him a lecture or at least a glare given how seriously Clint was taking the game, but he’d surprisingly been pretty mum about the whole thing. He’d made one comment that Yasha had better be in top form come Saturday, but that was all. Still, at breakfast that morning he’d unexpectedly announced that they could have Friday night to themselves and relax before the game, much to their collective relief, and promptly checked with Yasha to see if they were going to practice spells.

The answer had almost been no. In spite of the fact that no one was treating him any differently or asking any questions he didn’t want to answer, Yasha simply didn’t feel like being around _people_. He’d managed to get through most of the day in silence, copying notes and avoiding the gazes of his classmates as much as possible. He wasn’t sure if they were looking at him, but his neck itched as if they were. Every time someone whispered something under their breath, he instinctively thought it was about his meltdown on Halloween. There was no way of knowing without paying more attention, which he wasn’t keen on at all, so he’d ended up shutting himself in his head for most of the day as a result.

Having to tutor his classmates and friends in nonverbal magic after all that was at the bottom of his list of things he wanted to do. All he really felt in the mood for was curling up in bed, maybe playing with Winter, and sleeping. The others had been adamant about at least putting an hour or two in, however, so he’d made a slight compromise: he brought Winter to their study session and sat in the corner on top of one of the desks to watch in silence while everyone else worked on their spells. They must have realized at some point that he wasn’t in the mood to talk, because after the first ten minutes, they stopped trying to ask questions or engage him in conversation. Nat spared him the concerned glance now and again, and even Steve eyed him warily from time to time, but otherwise he was left to his own devices while they cursed in frustration at their lack of success (except for Clint, of course).

As soon as the promised hour was up, Yasha hopped down off the desk and muttered his excuses before ditching out, leaving the others to keep working without him. He felt calm enough that he knew he probably could have stayed the whole time, but having his roommates up here meant he might get a few minutes to himself, and that was just too tempting an idea to pass up.

Yasha managed to make it almost to the ground floor before he regretted his choices.

<Hey there, Screaming Smirnov.>

Okay, so not _everyone_ was ignoring what had happened on Halloween. Yasha disregarded Rumlow’s presence and kept walking.

<Aw, come on, don’t be that way.>

 _Go fuck yourself, you piece of shit,_ Yasha huffed internally, holding Winter a bit tighter as he picked up the pace.

He thought Rumlow would let him go, but apparently he was dumber than he thought. Yasha just barely avoided falling on his face when his feet involuntarily stopped, stuck to the floor where he stood. It was in that moment that he realized he _really_ should’ve just told everyone to go to hell and stayed in his dormitory all night.

Rumlow’s footsteps echoed through the corridor as he strode leisurely up to Yasha, crossing in front of him to lean casually against the wall. His smirk was as arrogant as ever; Yasha had thought maybe he would be out of practice with no teachers to rubber stamp him. Unlike at Durmstrang, there was no special treatment at Hogwarts. In fact, if Yasha had to wager a guess, he’d say the professors downright _hated_ Rumlow. He was the kind of student who thought he knew everything when in reality, he had no fucking clue what he was talking about but wanted people to think he did. He was frequently disrespectful, both to professors and other students, and he never listened to a word anyone said against him. His tenacity would be admirable if he wasn’t such a dick about it.

<What’s the rush?> he sneered. <We haven’t caught up in a while.>

<What do you want, Rumlow?> inquired Yasha tonelessly. He figured if he just played along, they could get this over with much quicker.

<Nothing. Just wondering how it feels to be the biggest coward in Hogwarts—which is saying something with all these babies.> He broke off to snort derisively, shaking his head. <Seriously, they wouldn’t last a second at Durmstrang. I was always surprised _you_ did. >

Yasha stared at him in silence, unmoved.

<Anyway, I just wanted to wish you good luck for tomorrow,> he continued when Yasha didn’t rise to the bait. <With Rogers and Odinson on the other team? Shit, I figure you’ll need it.>

Rumlow smiled like a shark and held out his hand as if he expected Yasha to shake it. When Yasha made no move to comply, he laughed, <Come on, man! Don’t leave me hanging here.>

Yasha continued staring at him, wondering if it would be worse to shake his damn hand or get punched in the gut when he was holding Winter if he didn’t. Ultimately he decided to just suck it up and deal, taking Rumlow’s proffered hand and shaking.

It took two seconds to realize his mistake when Rumlow clamped down _hard_ on his still healing fingers and yanked his hand forward. Yasha cried out as he fell to his knees, somehow maintaining his grip on Winter as the contact with the stone floor sent pain shooting all the way up into his abdomen. Rumlow made a move like he might knee him in the face—

—then went flying backwards into the wall just close enough for Winter to wriggle free and commence clawing viciously at his arm, leaving bloody trails behind as he attempted to regain his bearings enough to bat her away.

Frowning in confusion, Yasha turned slightly on his aching knees to see Clint standing a few feet behind him, eyes alight with an angry fire Yasha hadn’t seen since he was accused of stealing Winter. All of it was aimed not at him, but at _Rumlow_ as Clint strode forward and aimed his wand at Yasha’s feet, which were released from the spell holding him to the ground an instant later. He immediately yanked Winter back to his side, where she hissed and spat at Rumlow from afar, then lowered himself to sit on the stone floor and rubbed his knees with a wince. His hand was almost fully healed from the burns he’d suffered, but the skin was still raw beneath his bandages.

“What the _fuck_?!” spat Rumlow, stumbling to his feet and yanking his wand out of his pocket. He leveled it right at Clint, who responded in kind as the two faced off. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Barton. Pleasure.”

Yasha probably would have laughed at the obvious sarcasm if the situation were different. Unfortunately, he was too busy watching Rumlow’s every move.

“We were having a _conversation_ —“

“Not what it looked like to me.” Clint’s head tilted slightly in Yasha’s direction, his tone changing to one of polite incredulity as he commented, “You leave for, what, like five minutes and it all goes to shit.”

<Sorry, I’ll wait for you next time,> scoffed Yasha, rolling his eyes. Clint smirked, his gaze still trained on Rumlow.

“This is all I ask. After all, I love a good _conversation_ ,” he muttered dangerously.

Grinding his teeth, Rumlow adjusted the grip on his wand and hissed, “ _Stupefy!_ ”

“ _Protego,_ ” returned Clint with a lazy flick of his wand, his shield blocking the spell successfully. Apparently, despite all their lessons to teach them the opposite, Rumlow still hadn’t learned how to cast a spell without giving it away.

Fortunately, he didn’t know that Clint _had_.

A jet of red light hit him in the chest a second after he’d cast his own spell, and he went sailing through the air down the corridor. The spell was so strong that when he hit the ground, he continued sliding a few feet along the rough stone floor, which _couldn’t_ be comfortable.

“Gentlemen, what is going on here?” a familiar voice with a German accent spoke from the opposite end of the hall.

Yasha bit his lip, cursing internally as Professor Erskine strode up the hallway toward them. He was one of the more understanding teachers, but he doubted there was a whole lot they could do about the situation they found themselves in: Yasha sitting on the floor, apparently unharmed, while Clint stood scowling at Rumlow where he was moaning on the floor. Erskine was looking between the three of them with a stern frown on his face, waiting for a response.

Figuring it was probably best to tell the truth and suffer the consequences, Yasha had just opened his mouth to explain when Clint cut in over top of him with a bashful shrug.

“Sorry, Professor. We were practicing nonverbal spells and it kinda got outta hand,” he lied easily. He raised his voice to call down the corridor, “Right, man?”

Yasha wondered if Erskine heard the same veiled threat that he did, but if that was the case, he didn’t make it obvious as Rumlow grumbled in the affirmative. It wasn’t often that he was cowed into submission, so the fact that he’d done so in the face of Clint’s rage was really quite a compliment for the latter.

“Well, perhaps now is a good time for bed,” he suggested with raised eyebrows.

“You got it, sir,” agreed Clint immediately, hauling Yasha up by the arm and waiting while he plucked Winter off the ground before leading the way towards the common room. It was a struggle, but Yasha didn’t glance back once at Rumlow or Erskine the whole way.

Neither of them said a word as they made their way down the stairs, through the entrance hall, and entered the Hufflepuff common room in silence. Once they were safely inside, however, Yasha turned to Clint and shot him a bemused look.

<How did you know…?>

Clint didn’t need to ask what he meant, shrugging a little uncomfortably under Yasha’s scrutiny. “Some of the guys were worried, so I was just checking to make sure everything was all right. Good thing I did, too—what’s that douchebag’s deal, anyway?”

Snorting, Yasha explained, <I embarrassed him in front of his friends when he tried to curse Jarvis once. We’ve never exactly been on good terms after that.>

“What an asshole,” grumbled Clint, beginning to walk away when Darcy called out a challenge for an Exploding Snap game.

<Clint?> Yasha put a hand on his shoulder before he could get too far, his roommate turning to glance at him curiously. <How come you helped me?>

Clint actually looked a little surprised to be asked that question, but Yasha wasn’t sure why he would be. It was no secret that, while he kept the open animosity to a minimum, Clint wasn’t his biggest fan. Still, Clint shrugged as if it was obvious.

“’Cause we’re friends, man.”

Yasha blinked a few times, nodding numbly before letting him go to join Darcy on the sofa by the fireplace. When he entered the dormitory alone and sat on his bed, Winter nuzzling up against his jaw since she clearly thought he needed cheering up, he turned those words over in his mind and repeated the events of the last week.

He’d helped Clint get past whatever nonverbal blockage he’d been having.

Clint had sat with Yasha and Jarvis at meals for most of the week, along with Sam.

Clint had helped bring him back to the dormitory and take him to the hospital wing on Halloween.

Clint had given him a pass on Quidditch practice and kicked the shit out of Rumlow for him the way Yasha used to do for Steve.

_Holy shit. We’re friends._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some uncharacteristic fluff, [here's some happier Steve POV!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7543288/chapters/17305402)


	8. Walking the Tightrope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I wasn't able to update yesterday, but here's a slightly longer chapter!

_“Boys, your friends are here!”_

_Bucky and Steve nearly fell down the stairs in their excitement to get to the living room where, sure enough, Sam and Clint were standing framed in the doorway. Both of them had smudges of soot on their cheeks and clothes from the fireplace, but they wore identical grins nonetheless at having traveled for the first time through the Floo Network. Sarah was doing the best she could to knock the worst of it out of Clint’s hair, not that Clint gave her a chance to finish before he and Sam darted forward to wish Steve a happy twelfth birthday._

_It felt like they hadn’t seen each other in_ years _, but it was only a few weeks since they’d all finished their first year at Hogwarts together. Thankfully they didn’t have to go the whole summer, which would’ve_ sucked _, because Sarah and his mom had put together the idea to have their friends over for a combined fourth-of-July-slash-Steve’s-birthday party. Of course, it_ had _to be in Brooklyn because they didn’t celebrate the fourth of July in London and that would’ve been just_ wrong _. Instead the Barneses had Apparated in last night so Bucky and Steve could have a sleepover before their other friends arrived early in the afternoon the following day. They had hoped that T’Challa would be able to make it, but Bucky’s mother said there was some kind of conference his dad needed to go to in Nigeria that T’Challa would be accompanying him on. As prince, he had to do those sorts of things._

_His dad wisely pointed out that it was probably for the best anyway. If T’Challa hadn’t been able to tell Clint and Sam about his real identity, it might not be nearly as much fun for him if he had to keep pretending to be someone else._

_“You’ll never guess what I got you,” were the first words out of Sam’s mouth. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement, a huge gift bag held tightly in one hand._

_Clint rolled his eyes and said, “My gift kinda sucks, but it’s better than_ yours _.”_

_Bucky’s mom came into the room in time to hear that and laughed, sharing an amused glance with Sarah as she wiped the extra cake frosting off her hands with a dishtowel. “Well, why don’t you boys put your gifts on the table and then you can go play until dinner.”_

_Sam and Clint made wordless exclamations of agreement, dropping the bag and Clint’s tiny, poorly wrapped package on the coffee table before they ran back up the stairs to Steve’s room. They’d managed to convince Sarah to let Steve open just_ one _present the night before, which happened to be_ Mario Kart Wii _, and they set up the console to play while they caught up on what the others had been doing._

_Clint said he spent most of his time switching back and forth between living with his parents and his brother, who watched him when they were both working. Apparently he hadn’t been kidding when he’d told them all that his mom and dad worked for a traveling circus; they were frequently away doing shows, which meant his brother Barney would hold down the fort until they got back. Barney was over eighteen, so he could do cool things like drive them around to get takeout instead of cooking at home. It wasn’t too bad, at least not in Clint’s opinion._

_Sam, on the other hand, just shrugged and said he hadn’t been doing anything except playing video games and catching up on television he’d missed because, “Why can’t we have T.V. at school? Seriously, the place could probably make its own electricity with magic and we can’t have any Muggle stuff at all.”_

_Bucky shrugged, grabbing a handful of Cheetos out of the bowl he and Steve had brought up earlier. “Mom says it’s a tradition thing.”_

_“Yeah,” chimed in Steve, rolling his eyes. “Like how we can’t use pens like normal people.”_

_“Hey, quills aren’t that bad,” argued Clint. None of them bothered to remind him that the only reason he felt that way was because he’d made it a game to see how long it took for Darcy to figure it out every time he dipped her hair in his inkwell._

_“I miss mechanical pencils,” sighed Sam, picking up one of the controllers as the game loaded on Steve’s television._

_Bucky and Steve hummed in agreement before Clint promptly wiped the floor with them in every damn race because he was a_ jerk _._

_When they couldn’t take the thrashing anymore, they gave up and raced down the stairs to see if they could go outside and play on Bucky’s broom, which he’d brought to show Steve some of the tricks he’d learned so far. It took some convincing (and some shameless whining) before his dad agreed—but only if they stayed in the backyard and didn’t fly higher than the fence._

_It was better than nothing anyway._

_They all took turns on his broom, laughing as they tried spins and dives that really weren’t effective if you couldn’t go higher than six feet. Clint went crashing to the ground more than any of them, but it never broke his resolve to do a barrel roll, especially after Steve managed it in only two tries._

_“’S ‘cause you’re so short,” he grumbled only to receive a handful of dirt and grass to the face in revenge._

_Sarah, of course, scolded Steve firmly for it when they arrived back inside for dinner with Clint wearing the lawn, but Bucky thought he caught a tiny wink when Steve told her why he did it. There was a reason Sarah Rogers was one of Bucky’s favorite people in the world._

_Dinner was a masterpiece of simple elegance: pizza from the best place in Brooklyn. Sam had never tried New York pizza and was immediately enamored with the_ superior _taste while Clint turned his nose up and commented that pizza in Chicago was infinitely better—before downing five slices without blinking. They teased him mercilessly for it, especially when it dawned on them that he couldn’t flip them off without doing it in front of a room of adults._

_Before they ate cake, it was time to open Steve’s presents. Sam, knowing that Steve loved to draw and was actually getting pretty damn good at it, had gotten him a magic pencil that would change color and thickness depending on the will of the user, or so the package advertised. Just to be safe, he’d also picked up about ten different colors of ink just so Steve would have a backup._

_When Steve carefully opened Clint’s gift, his mouth fell open in delight to see two tickets to his parents’ circus when they came to Manhattan in August, one for him and one for Sarah._

_“Told you it was better,” he boasted to Sam as Sarah thanked him for being so thoughtful as to include her._

_Then it was Bucky’s turn. He nervously pulled his gift off the table and held it out, not sure how it would be received with Clint and Sam in the room with them. Steve eyed him warily for a second before ripping the paper off a small white box that used to house a necklace he’d gotten his mom for Mother’s Day, frowning._

_“Buck, you know I love you, but…”_

_“Shut it, punk,” he laughed, smacking him on the shoulder. “Just open it.”_

_Steve snickered, flipping open the top and staring down at the red and blue jewel with an utter lack of comprehension. “Uh…”_

_“It’s a talisman,” explained Bucky after clearing his throat anxiously. “The lady at the Apothecary said it’s got a charm on it. I mean, it’s probably bogus, but… If you put it in your pocket or on a necklace or something, it’s supposed to keep you healthy ‘n stuff.”_

_Steve’s eyes narrowed into exactly the expression Bucky had been trying to avoid with his gentle account. It had mostly been to help with Steve’s allergies so he could play with Winter without needing to worry about having an asthma attack. When he’d thought about it more in the shop, though, he figured it couldn’t hurt Steve’s overall wellbeing to have it either._

_When Steve continued to glare at him without saying anything, Bucky shuffled his feet slightly and muttered, “I’m sorry. I can take it b—“_

_“Thanks, Buck. It’s great.” Steve shot him a strained yet still genuine smile, dropping the stone in his pocket and taking the next present Sarah handed him._

_It wasn’t until they’d long since sung “Happy Birthday” off-tune, devoured the cake, said their goodbyes to Sam and Clint, and were getting ready for bed that Steve gave Bucky’s present a try. When Bucky came back from brushing his teeth, Steve was perched on the edge of his bed staring at Winter like she was a particularly difficult puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. The fingers of his right hand were fiddling with the stone. Then, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, Steve clenched his fist around it before reaching out and grabbing the cat, hugging her to his chest._

_He didn’t so much as sniffle once in the ten minutes he held her, grinning happily up at Bucky with an expression full of surprise._

_“This is the best birthday present ever.”_

 

***

 

Yasha’s eyes opened to see grey predawn light streaming in through the small windows of their dormitory, providing just enough illumination to see the dust motes floating in the air and that his roommates weren’t up yet. It seemed impossible, but for the first night in months, he hadn’t had a nightmare—not even a short one. Instead he’d dreamed a memory, and the knot that had taken up residence in his chest eased a bit as he smiled in reminiscence. That year had remained one of the best birthdays he’d spent with Steve, their friends making it even better than they could have on their own with just their families. The stone had been a success and Steve took to carrying it with him everywhere. He’d stopped sneezing around Winter, although it wasn’t like he stuck his nose in her fur either, and his colds were fewer and further between; hell, Yasha didn’t even remember Steve having another asthma attack before he and his family had gone into hiding.

As he sat up and stretched, he glanced over to where Clint and Sam were snoring away in their beds, not having to get up for breakfast for a little longer. He felt a pang of longing stronger than he had in a long time, since back when he used to wonder if they missed him as much as he’d missed them all this time.

Was it such a bad thing to _want_ to be friends with them again? He wasn’t that person anymore, that carefree kid who enjoyed flying around on his broom and playing video games with his friends. Now he was more partial to spending his free time quietly in his dormitory, alone, playing with his cat before he went to sleep. If he’d learned anything in the last three years, it was that people were fickle and fleeting whether they meant to be or not. Just as quickly as they entered your life, they could be snatched away by circumstances beyond your control. It had happened to his family, and it would be naïve to think it was more than just a matter of time until it happened to his friends as well.

What was worse: to take what he wanted and lose them later, or never to have them at all? And would the person he used to be hate him for stealing his friends and making a mockery of his memory?

Sighing, Yasha ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. These weren’t the thoughts he should be having today. It was Saturday, and they had a Quidditch match in a little under two hours. He still needed to shower, dress, get breakfast (he’d shove it down his throat if he had to, or Sam would do it for him), and get his head in gear for the game. Rumlow hadn’t been lying the night before when he mentioned how daunting some of the Gryffindor players were. Steve had been pretty damn good when he was _tiny_ ; now he was a giant, and Thor was even bigger than he had been when they were younger, which was really saying something. Yasha needed to bring his A-game for Hufflepuff, no question about it.

This time, the dreaded expectations that settled on his shoulders were self-inflicted: _I can’t let them down._

So he got up and he headed for the lavatories. By the time he got back, Clint was grumpy but awake, both he and Sam getting dressed; they would change into their Quidditch robes when they got to the locker rooms. Sam, who was at least a little more aware of his surroundings, gave him a quick nod and a blinding grin.

“You all set, man?”

<As I’ll ever be,> he replied through Jarvis, the smile he returned almost completely genuine.

They weren’t able to chat much as they headed to the Great Hall to see the Gryffindor team already eating, and that was just fine by Yasha’s nerves. He’d left his earpiece in the dormitory for fear that it would be broken during the match if he was wearing it, and it got so _tiresome_ to have conversations with a third party translating sometimes. It still wasn’t worth abandoning the _I Don’t Speak English_ front, though, so he put up with it when necessary. He let the others fill in the silence around them, talking quietly about potential weaknesses in the other team they could exploit. It turned out that most of the current Gryffindor players had been on the team last year as well, which meant that there was plenty of intel to be gathered and Yasha soaked it up like a sponge.

Steve and Thor were fast and packed a punch as Chasers, but their weight made it difficult for them to maneuver quickly sometimes.

Daniel Sousa was Keeper, and he was damn good at it. Regardless, he tended to hover closer to the right end of his center hoop, making feints to the right a distinct advantage.

Peter Parker was the Seeker, small and agile and pretty damn fast. In spite of his speed, though, he was the most susceptible to Bludgers because he wasn’t always as aware of his surroundings as he should be.

Rhodes was an expert at feinting, but he tended to leave his right side open in the process.

Charles Xavier was a fine Beater, but Wade Wilson hadn’t gained the nickname _Deadpool_ for nothing. He was a force to be reckoned with, just as Yasha remembered, but was easily distracted by violence, sexual innuendos, or shiny objects.

_At least,_ mused Yasha silently, _they don’t know how I play, so Wilson won’t be on my ass the whole time again._

That had been the most annoying part of the last game he played, and he was determined that it wouldn’t happen again, especially since Tatiana had written to him the week prior to say she and Mikhail would be in the stands. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint them when they came all this way just to watch him play.

When it was time for them to head down to the locker rooms and get changed, Yasha congratulated himself on managing to eat (and keep down) a plateful of eggs, turkey sausage, and toast. It was a little embarrassing to see both Sam and Jarvis nodding in approval, as well as Nat and Wanda when they arrived for their own breakfast and noticed his empty plate, but he kept reminding himself it was because they _cared_. They weren’t _actively_ trying to make him feel like he was five years old and incapable of taking care of himself.

Maybe he _was_ having trouble with the latter, but he wasn’t _five_.

The day wasn’t the most ideal for Quidditch, he observed as they headed down towards the locker rooms beside the pitch, but it wasn’t terrible. The sun was out, which meant that while it would glint off the Golden Snitch and make it easier for the Seekers to spot, it would also be glaring in their eyes and making it more difficult for the other players to manage their own targets. There was only a light breeze for the beginning of November, though, so they wouldn’t need to adjust much for wind. (And they wouldn’t be playing in biting, bitter cold, which was never fun for _anybody_.)

Yasha tied his hair back and changed into his yellow and black Quidditch robes in silence, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one saw that he had two sets. When he got on the team, Clint made sure to get him a uniform with his number on it (lucky number six). What he didn’t know was that Yasha still had his old set from third year in his trunk—and he’d had the same number back then. A few changes and alterations later, it fit him like a glove, so he left his new robes crumpled in a ball inside his locker and used the old ones instead. It wasn’t necessary, but it just _fit_ better than the new ones. He couldn’t explain why.

Once most of the team was ready, Clint stood at the front of the locker room and glared around at them. It was time for the famous pre-match speech from their team captain. Ellie would have said something sarcastic and biting about winning the game or getting the hell off the team (only half seriously); Steve, who he’d found out was the Gryffindor captain, was probably over there telling them to do their best and that winning wasn’t the important thing even though the little shit had always been competitive as fuck. Yasha was interested to see where Clint fell within that spectrum.

“All right,” he eventually addressed the team after a moment of silence. “Let’s go kick some red and gold ass.”

And then he left the locker room.

_Well. That’s one way to do it._

The rest of the team chuckled to each other before grabbing their brooms and following in his wake, Dum Dum clapping Yasha on the shoulder with his familiar grin. He tended to be a little manic before a game, but he was a damn good Beater, so Yasha smiled back at him.

<Good luck!> Dum Dum managed to exclaim in halting, stilted Russian. There was something really touching about that, although maybe Yasha was just feeling a bit emotional after the dream he’d had the night before.

“Thanks,” he replied, playing the Russian accent a little heavy. “You too.”

Dum Dum’s grin grew impossibly wider, his heavy hand on Yasha’s shoulder shaking him once in a brotherly sort of way as they strolled out into the sunlight.

The stands were packed, Professor Phillips was on the field with the trunk of Quidditch equipment, and the Gryffindor team was lining up alongside them to enter the pitch. Yasha took a deep breath and for once allowed the sense of familiarity to overwhelm his senses, smiling a little at the foreign feeling of contentment that accompanied it. As soon as they mounted their brooms and took off for their pre-game exercises, it felt like everything else had been left behind underneath the cheers of the crowd and the buzz of collective excitement: the nerves of playing for the first time in years, the pang of sorrow that this was the first game his family wouldn’t attend, the anxious anticipation of his guardians watching in the stands, all of it.

For the first time in so long, he felt _excited_ about something. He chased the feeling like Seekers chasing a Snitch, leaning forward on his broom to put on a burst of speed as he rounded the far end of the pitch and rocketed toward the other side.

On his second lap, he caught a blur of red beside him and there was Steve Rogers, decked out in red and gold and grinning wickedly as they started up an impromptu race. They were practically flat against their broomsticks, neck-and-neck until Yasha just barely managed to gain an inch, laughing over the wind. When he glanced over his shoulder, Steve flipped him the bird right as the whistle blew for them to get in position.

Phillips glared up at them from the ground, hands on his hips in the usual _If You Break the Rules, I’ll Break You_ posture. Then the Snitch was released, the Quaffle was in the air, Dum Dum was wailing his typical _wahoo!_ , and they were off.

Rhodes had the ball first, managing to get to it before Sam and darting towards the Hufflepuff goalposts. Making chase, Yasha put himself in the path of one of the Bludgers, took aim, and sent it sailing towards his back just as Rhodes was approaching Rogue’s position. She moved forward to block the goalpost, but the Bludger knocked the Quaffle right out of his grip; Logan, one of the Hufflepuff Chasers, caught it out of the air and whipped around in the other direction to find Steve waiting. He literally _punched_ the ball out of Logan’s arms, and it fell to Thor where he was waiting just underneath. He aimed, he shot—

Rogue kicked it back to Sam, who sped off in the direction of the Gryffindor goals with all three Chasers in tow.

Following suit and keeping an eye out for Bludgers he could use for defense, Yasha kept one eye on the Chasers and saw Thor getting a little too close to Sam’s tail for comfort. They were just close enough to his position that Yasha could dart forward, putting himself in the way so Thor had to swerve to avoid hitting him and lost his edge as Sam moved further off.

On the other end of the pitch, Dum Dum batted a Bludger straight at Steve, the latter dodging at the very last moment but still losing the distance he had been gaining on Sam. Rhodes wasn’t close enough to do any damage as he approached the goal, aiming right with Sousa following his angle immediately—

He was feinting and threw left instead—

“TEN POINTS TO HUFFLEPUFF!”

The yellow-and-black clad end of the stadium exploded into jubilant noise while Sam pumped both fists into the air. Clint was applauding as he kept one eye out for the Snitch, the other focused on the rest of the game.

When the Quaffle was back in play, Clint gave the signal for Dum Dum to play offense while Yasha took guard, flanking Morita as he handled the ball and squared off with Sousa once more. He was prepared this time, but the ball never made it near the goalposts since Thor barreled up and over them, rolling upside down and kicking the ball out of Morita’s grip. Yasha almost managed to block Steve, but the latter caught it first and took off for the other side of the pitch.

Thor was watching his six, swerving to keep his broom an inch in front of Yasha’s at all times. Logan swooped down in front of Steve, which forced him to dodge up or down; he chose to go beneath him, thinking he was calling Logan’s bluff only to get plowed into. The Quaffle fell from his hands, and there was a brief struggle between Rhodes and Morita as neither was able to get a good grip on the ball. A Bludger from Dum Dum was what decided it: Rhodes yelped as his arm was knocked aside roughly, and he was lucky that it wasn’t broken. Morita dove for the ball and headed back towards the Gryffindor goalposts while Yasha followed suit, shooting Dum Dum a thumbs up. Sam pulled up beside him, both of them guarding Morita’s rear as he and Logan passed the ball back and forth, all three Gryffindor Chasers following close on their asses.

Pulling up sharp, Yasha grunted in pain as Steve slammed into him from behind and quite nearly knocked both of them off their brooms, but he managed to keep his balance as he ignored Steve swearing in his ear.

“ANOTHER TEN POINTS TO HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Sousa, lock down those goalposts before I lock down your asshole with my club!” shouted Wade from halfway across the pitch.

“Man, I don’t think he realizes just how _wrong_ the shit that comes out of his mouth sounds,” panted Sam as he flew up beside Yasha, who had the distinct feeling that Wade understood _exactly_ how wrong it sounded and just didn’t give two shits.

After half an hour, Hufflepuff was ahead by fifty points; by the end of the hour, they were up almost ninety. The Gryffindor players were beginning to get tetchy, but they were still good sports about it—except Wade, who couldn’t be expected to be a good sport about anything anyway so whatever. Their strategy began to change radically as a result: Parker was feverishly darting across the pitch in search of the Golden Snitch while the Beaters shifted their attention to blocking and taking down their counterparts on the Hufflepuff team. While Sam, Morita, and Logan were excellent on their own, a great deal of their strategy depended on using one or both of their Beaters as blockers to add extra protection to their plays. Keeping them out of the game meant the Gryffindor Chasers had even odds against them.

Xavier was blocking Dum Dum, which of course left Yasha with Wade. The latter spent most of the time blocking him from getting too close to the action—or any Bludgers—and was setting the record for smart remarks while effectively rendering Yasha absolutely useless.

After two more Hufflepuff goals and six Gryffindor ones, Yasha spotted the Snitch hovering a few inches to the right of Wade’s ear. Parker was still hunting over towards the Gryffindor goalposts where it had last been seen twenty minutes earlier while Clint was hovering only about ten yards away.

The second Yasha opened his mouth to call out to him, the wind was knocked out of his lungs as a Bludger struck him full force in the chest. Choking and gasping for breath, it was all he could do to hold onto his broomstick and not fall off as the Snitch zoomed away. Wade, meanwhile, was staring at him with a smirk and shrugged innocently.

“Oops?”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Yasha managed to grind out around the pain, sucking a shallow breath in through his teeth.

“Ooh, English! They always say find a man who can do _both_ , y— _oof_!”

“Watch where you’re flying, Deadpool!” shouted Sam as he whizzed by with the Quaffle and half the Gryffindor team on his tail. Wade flipped him off, thoroughly distracted long enough for Yasha to maneuver around him and bat an incoming Bludger towards Steve, who was the closest and about to meet them head on.

After he did it, he would swear it was instinct, that some latent programming took over the way it had at the train station in Hogsmeade two months ago and made him do something utterly idiotic. The way was clear for him to take that Bludger and nail Steve in the face—he would have, too, if it were anyone else on that broom. Instead he aimed it low, realizing too late that he’d imitated the move from his last game and shot the Bludger at Steve’s _broom_ rather than the player sitting on it. The ball struck in the exact same place: just low enough to avoid bodily hurting Steve while simultaneously throwing him off balance to send him tumbling through the air.

Yasha froze in place when the full weight of his actions came crashing down on him. As soon as Steve righted himself, he could tell from the look in the Gryffindor’s eyes that the same had happened to him.

“Fooooooooooore!”

This Bludger smashed into his back, only this time he wasn’t prepared for it. Yasha went sailing over the end of his broomstick, the ground looking impossibly far away but rapidly approaching as he fell. There was nothing he could do to cushion the impact from this height; even if he had his wand on him, which he didn’t, he had no clue if there was a spell to use for it. So he closed his eyes and waited, distantly hoping that Madam Bishop would be able to put the pieces of him back together again—

When a hard _yank_ on his right arm brought him up short.

Screaming, Yasha thought his shoulder was going to dislocate as muscle and tendons pulled taut. When he glanced up in confusion, he saw Steve gritting his teeth and breathing heavily with the exertion of holding him up dozens of feet from the ground, his hand gripping tight around his forearm. As painful as it was for Yasha, he assumed it must be nearly as bad for Steve; his _fucking ridiculously huge_ muscles looked as though they might burst the seams of his Quidditch robes as they swelled and trembled beneath the fabric.

It took a second to bring his brain back online. Then Yasha swung to the side to grab the end of Steve’s broom and relieve some of the pressure on both their arms as Steve lowered them closer to the ground. As soon as they were within safe distance, he let go of Yasha’s wrist and let him fall onto the grass, hesitating only a moment before turning his broom skyward and taking off again.

_Holy shit._

Yasha dropped back onto the ground, hearing the announcement that Gryffindor had made another goal without really listening. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Steve had saved his life, or at the very least saved him from some extremely serious injury. His shoulder was throbbing in its socket and his back ached from where the Bludger had careened into him unexpectedly, but he was still in one piece.

_Speaking of being in one piece_ , he thought, sitting up despite the soreness he felt _everywhere_ when it dawned on him that he had no clue where his broom had gone. It took a minute before he could see the silver broomstick against the green grass a few yards away and jogged over to find that it, too, was undamaged but for a few scratches. He was mounting just as Gryffindor made another goal and lifted into the air, carefully getting his bearings back before reentering the game. In spite of the goal going to the other side, he heard an outpouring of support from his own house on the other end of the pitch.

“HUFFLEPUFF LEADS 170 TO 120! AND IT LOOKS LIKE SMIRNOV IS BACK IN THE GAME!”

There was another cheer, Yasha’s face heating up in embarrassment as Clint moved to hover nearby.

“You okay?” he shouted over the din. Usually Yasha admitted to understanding short, simple remarks like that, but he still alternated between a thumbs up and a thumbs down for good measure.

When Yasha put his hand out flat and wiggled it from side to side, Clint shrugged sympathetically and took back off down the pitch. There was nothing to be done for it right now except finishing the game as quickly as possible, and if Yasha was still able to play, he’d do his damndest to keep them in the lead until one of the Seekers caught the Snitch.

Every bone in his body was aching, but Yasha put them through their paces anyway and forced himself to keep up the pace. Wade wasn’t on his tail anymore, although he sent a Bludger rocketing in his direction now and again, Yasha responding in kind. Most of his attention was on the Chasers, though. He and Dum Dum had come to the silent arrangement that the latter would take point on guarding their rears while Yasha played from a distance, practically chasing after the Bludgers to send them shooting into the Gryffindors in rapid succession.

So absorbed was he in the effort of keeping himself engaged in the game that he didn’t realize the whistle blew to indicate that the Snitch had been caught until the announcer cried, “AND BARTON CATCHES THE GOLDEN SNITCH, EARNING HIS TEAM 150 POINTS! HUFFLEPUFF WINS 340 TO 160!”

“ _Waaaaaaaaaaaahoooooooooooooo_!”

Suddenly Yasha felt himself tackled by almost two hundred pounds of Dugan, big arms wrapping around him in celebration. It only took a few seconds for him to realize what a terrible idea that was when Yasha cried out in the universal language for _That Fucking Hurts, You Moron_.

That didn’t stop Dum Dum from laughing triumphantly all the way to the ground, however, and his joy was infectious enough to put a smile on Yasha’s face as they met the team in the center of the pitch. Clint was grinning from ear to ear, the Snitch still held tight in his fist while Sam put both hands on his shoulders and shook him wildly. Rogue and Morita exchanged a high five just as the rest of their house joined them on the pitch, cheering and preparing to cart the lot of them off to the Hufflepuff common room for a party that would undoubtedly last much longer than the already dwindling reserves of energy Yasha had left. As it was, he was already growing overwhelmed by the sheer _number_ of excited faces peering in at them long before he was lifted up onto Jarvis’s shoulders like the rest of the team around him and carried off the field.

_Well. At least it’s better than walking_ , he admitted, if only to himself. They made it a few yards outside the pitch before he reluctantly tapped Jarvis on the shoulder and shouted over the cheering, <I need to find my aunt and uncle!>

Nodding, Jarvis lowered him to the ground gently and yelled something back about meeting him in their common room before leaving with the rest of the house. Nat, who had been with them in spite of the fact that she wasn’t a Hufflepuff, offered to help him look but he waved her off with a quick word of thanks before admitting that he needed a minute to cool off on his own anyway. Rolling her eyes patiently, Nat pecked him on the cheek and congratulated him again before running to meet Wanda where she was waiting near the castle.

Just like that, he was practically invisible in the crowd and heaved a sigh of relief. If he felt like he couldn’t breathe out _here_ , he didn’t even want to think about how it would feel to be crammed into the Hufflepuff common room with everyone else while they celebrated.

That was a good enough reason to take his time finding Tatiana and Mikhail. Besides, he wanted to change out of his robes before he went back inside anyway. They were filthy, stained with grass and dirt, and he could already smell his sweat soaking through. What he really wanted in that moment was a _shower_ , but there were other things to be done first.

By that point, the parents who’d been up in the stands had arrived on the grass outside the pitch, scattered here and there as they visited with their children. He felt a brief twinge of jealousy and grief but refused to let himself dwell on it until later when he was back in his dormitory, hopefully alone, and could brood over it in peace. Instead he scanned the crowd to find the Petrovs’ familiar faces, standing a comfortable distance from the thickest parts of the assemblage. There were a few yellow Quidditch robes here and there, but mostly his team had gone inside; the Gryffindors, however, were all still out on the field chatting with friends and parents.

As Yasha watched the crowd, his eyes fell on one such red-robed figure, whose blue eyes were piercing straight into Yasha’s. Steve was standing only a few yards away, observing him with an unreadable expression on his face. Powerless to look away, Yasha stared right back, swallowing hard around the sudden lump in his throat. After he finally thought he’d gotten a handle on his behavior around Steve, he’d let his guard down and made a stupid mistake—and Steve _knew_ it…

<Yasha, congratulations!>

It was difficult to tear his eyes away from Steve, but Yasha somehow managed it just as Tatiana threw her arms around his shoulders in a tight embrace.

<Thanks, Tati,> he murmured quietly into her shoulder as he hugged her back.

Mikhail was patting him on the back with a proud, almost paternal smile on his face as he gushed, <That was a hell of a tumble you took, but you were still one of the best ones out there.>

As Yasha pulled back from Tatiana, he couldn’t help the smile that pulled up on his lips. Mikhail wasn’t heavy-handed with compliments, so if he was saying Yasha did well, he must have done _really fucking well_.

<I told you this was a good idea,> beamed Tatiana, cupping his face momentarily before she seemed to realize that he wasn’t as excited as he probably should be. <What’s the matter?>

Yasha opened his mouth, but nothing came out. When he glanced back at where Steve had been standing before his guardians found him, he saw that the Gryffindor was nowhere to be found. _Shit._

Turning back to Tatiana, he whispered, <I think I fucked up.>

 

***

 

<Come on, Yasha, you need to let loose and have a bit of fun every now and again,> Jarvis sighed, endeavoring to hand him another bottle of butterbeer.

Yasha waved it off again, firmly insisting, <I’m tired, Jarvis. I think I just want to call it a night. We can celebrate with Nat and the others more tomorrow, okay?>

Waving a finger, Jarvis shot him a warning look. <Be careful what promises you make. Once I tell Natasha, you’ll be expected to keep it.>

<Then you can tell her _twice_ ,> countered Yasha with a cheeky grin that his heart just wasn’t in.

After laughing and clapping him on the shoulder, Jarvis wished him congratulations once more and capitulated graciously. Luckily, no one else was paying Yasha any mind and he was able to sneak back into the dormitory without being accosted by any other revelers. The noise of the party could still be heard through the door, but it was muffled enough that it didn’t bother him as Yasha threw himself down on the bed and buried his face in his pillow.

_I’m so royally fucked._

He was only allowed to wallow in his own stupidity for a minute or two before the mattress shifted slightly beside him and a cold nose nudged his ear through his hair. Smiling sadly, Yasha rolled over onto his back to let Winter climb on his chest, where she curled up in a ball and stared at him.

<What do I do, Win?> he sighed, stroking her head.

She just meowed in response and dug her claws into his shirt possessively.

Chuckling, he cooed, <Well, you’re no help, are you?>

There was no heat behind his words, though. This was a decision he had to make alone—Tatiana had told him as much before she and Mikhail went home.

He’d pulled them away from the crowds of students, parents, and professors as soon as he could, whispering frantically about his misstep during the game. Mikhail’s face was as inscrutable as Steve’s had been, but by the time he finished, Tatiana’s eyebrows were furrowed in a mixture of concern and fear.

<Do you think he’ll figure it out?> she’d inquired. Yasha had shrugged helplessly in response, waiting as she fell silent before coming at the problem from a whole new angle: <Do you trust this boy?>

<With my life,> had been his immediate answer, and he put every ounce of conviction into it that he possibly could. It didn’t matter how long it had been since he’d seen Steve or how much they’d changed from the kids they used to be—Steve was kind and good and loyal. Yasha had only needed to see it in his eyes that day Steve visited him in the hospital wing to know, and there were so many other instances than just that. A thousand years could pass and there would still be no one on the planet he trusted more than Steve Rogers.

<You may have to,> Mikhail had interjected, <if he realizes.>

<So, what do I do?> he’d demanded, half panicking. He hated for this to be the first real verbal conversation he had with his guardians in _months_ , but it couldn’t be helped. <Do I just wait and see what he does? Do I tell him—do I make something up?>

Tatiana and Mikhail had appeared to hold a silent conversation that Yasha wasn’t privy to. All he could read was the tension in their limbs and the anxiety on their faces.

After an incalculable, torturous pause, Tatiana had turned back to him and shook her head.

<You’ll have to decide that on your own,> she’d told him sadly. <If you trust this boy and are _positive_ that he wouldn’t tell a soul who you really are… >

She hadn’t finished that sentence, leaving it open for Yasha to do as he saw fit. The only problem was that he didn’t _know_ what the right thing to do was. It would be a lie to walk up to Steve and claim a name that was no longer his. It would be despicable and deceitful to make him believe he had his dead best friend back.

Still… He didn’t necessarily _have_ to promise those things, though. Spouting facts wasn’t the same thing.

_Steve would think it is._

Yasha lay awake vacillating until night became early morning and the sounds of weary feet echoed through the corridor outside as the party-goers finally retreated to their beds. Pretending to be asleep when his roommates came in, he listened to them get ready for bed (or, in Clint’s case, collapse on the bed without bothering to change out of his Quidditch robes) and remembered his dream from the night before. If he told Steve, he wouldn’t be able to hold back. He was well aware that he’d been denying it for some time, but being near his old friends felt _good_. It felt _right_ in ways that he was thoroughly ashamed of. If he did this, the desperation that unconsciously clawed at his insides to be near his old friends while also striving halfheartedly to shun them forever would finally break through and make the decision for him. He wouldn’t be able to maintain the distance that currently protected the last shred of sanity he had left if he told Steve.

_Doesn’t he deserve to know, though?_ his traitorous brain proposed.

If he were in Steve’s position, he would have felt like he was going out of his mind: seeing a cat identical to his dead friend’s, watching him imitate familiar mannerisms over and over, seeing him make the same Quidditch plays to win while still having his back… He would feel like he was going mad, either with grief or paranoia. What kind of person would he be if he left Steve clinging to these tiny shreds of hope with not even the slightest chance of closure?

The endless cycle of questions begetting only more questions finally drove him from his bed, Winter watching him through narrowed eyes as he shucked off the covers. He whispered an apology for waking her, stroking her head until she fell back asleep, and then quietly tiptoed out of the dormitory and into the common room.

Everything was a wreck: candy wrappers and bottles were strewn all over the place, leftover food and streamers and deflating balloons included among the garbage littering the floor. The house-elves had clearly not been around to clean just yet, and he supposed they wouldn’t be with him sitting here in their way. Yasha couldn’t bring himself to care, though, brushing leftover trash from the couch and curling up in one corner to watch the embers burning low in the hearth while he desperately tried to empty his mind.

He must have dozed off at some point, because he jerked back into consciousness to see an origami frog poking at his hand where it was draped over the arm of the couch.

_Yup. It’s official: I’ve lost my fucking mind._

Sighing despairingly at the mess that was his life, Yasha turned his hand so his palm was facing up. The frog hopped on and then went still, waiting while he unfolded the parchment and read three words:

> _Who are you?_

He didn’t need to wonder who had sent it. The handwriting was painfully familiar, and there was only one person who would send him a note asking that after what Yasha pulled.

_Time to decide. Piss or get off the pot._

The familiarity of one of his father’s favorite expressions calmed him slightly, and Yasha took a deep breath before he folded the parchment back up and returned to the dormitory to get his wand and a quill.

Five minutes later, an origami frog squeezed under the hidden door to the Hufflepuff common room and hopped up the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower with a new message emblazoned on the parchment:

> _The Spot._
> 
> _Next Hogsmeade weekend._
> 
> _Come alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we're rapidly approaching the halfway point in this story, I just want to take this opportunity to tell you guys how much I appreciate you reading and thank you for the kudos/comments/bookmarks. Having your feedback is very important to me, and I honestly love reading what you have to say. Thank you so much, and I hope you continue to enjoy the series moving forward. :)
> 
> Also, [here's the latest one-shot with the events at Halloween from Steve's POV!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7543288/chapters/17328493)


	9. Weights and Burdens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a microscopic mention of past child abuse in this chapter. No details, not even to say what that abuse was.

It snowed the Friday after the Quidditch match, huge fluffy snowflakes drifting down to cover the landscape in pure white. In their classrooms, they were only half-listening to the lessons while they watched the uninterrupted, unblemished drifts as they gathered as far as the eye could see. As soon as classes ended for the day, most of the students were itching to get outside only to find that the sun set far too early this time of year, forcing them to postpone their wintry escapades.

By Saturday, the effect of the fresh snow was ruined by footsteps and snow angels (which never seemed to come out right) and bits of grass poking out into the cold air where there had been an overenthusiastic snowball fight. Students filtered in and out of the castle as they alternated between playing in the snow and warming up or getting food before coming right back out for more.

Yasha was sitting on the front steps with Nat, a goblet of warm cider cupped in his gloved hands while they watched the excitement unfold. Winters at Durmstrang had robbed them both of much of their sensitivity to the cold, so while most of their classmates were bundled up in heavy coats and boots, they were dressed fairly light by comparison. Nat’s fur-lined hat and jacket perfectly matched her black skinny jeans and Converse sneakers; Yasha had made a bit more of an effort, adding a scarf and gloves to his leather jacket and heavy jeans, but she’d lived in Russia her entire life so she could cut him a break.

Skye was busy viciously dominating a snowball fight with another Gryffindor in her year, Scott Lang, her cheeks red with the cold and excitement. Meanwhile, the twins and Jarvis had decided against joining them, citing work they needed to get done as the reason. Yasha thought the twins may have been honest about it, especially since they were almost halfway to taking their N.E.W.T. exams now. Jarvis, on the other hand, had an obvious aversion to the cold and preferred their comfortable common room to sitting outside in the snow. For the most part, Yasha agreed with him, but he was desperate for something to take his mind off things and this was as good a way as any.

He only had one week until their next Hogsmeade weekend. When he’d woken up the morning after the game, Yasha had immediately wondered _what the ever loving fuck_ he’d been thinking in sending that message back. He could have ignored it or waited until he was in his right mind in the morning or said he had no idea what Steve was talking about or even asked who the hell was asking— _something_! Instead he’d made a promise he couldn’t rescind, the result being a heavy weight settling in the pit of his stomach that seemed to grow every day the closer they got to when he’d specified in the note.

Steve, for his part, hadn’t said a word. He was still terrible at hiding things, though, which made for a lot of awkward staring. During meals, Yasha frequently glanced around the Great Hall only to find blue eyes scrutinizing his every move. When they had their study session for the week—where everyone managed to summon at least _something_ nonverbally—he had been finding any excuse to ask Yasha questions or get his opinion on his performance. It was the least subtle he’d probably ever been, not that Yasha could hold it against him. That note hadn’t been what he’d call discreet either.

All he could do, though, was keep acting normal. Well, as normal as it ever got for him. Yasha got up in the morning, went to meals (sometimes he even ate them), paid attention in class, thanked every power in existence that Clint gave them a week off from Quidditch practice in celebration of their major win, played with Winter, went to sleep, had his nightmares, and woke up to do the same thing over again. With the buzzing anxiety vibrating through his bones, he figured sticking to the routine was the best he could handle right now.

Shivering slightly, Yasha took a sip of his cider and grimaced to find that it was growing cold. He heard Nat snort before her wand poked at his cup, steam rising from the liquid again after a moment.

<Thanks,> he chuckled, taking a deep pull even though it burned his throat.

Nat hummed, leaning back on her elbows with a jerk of her head in Skye’s direction. <What do you think? They look pretty cozy.>

Rolling his eyes, Yasha bluntly remarked, <I think if she’s interested, she’ll make a move on her own without needing you pushing her about it.>

<Yasha, I’m appalled that you would say such a thing!> she exclaimed in mock offense. <I was merely pointing out the obvious.>

<Don’t give me that shit—there’s nothing you love more than playing matchmaker.>

It was true: Natasha’s opinions on love hadn’t changed in the time he’d known her, but that didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy setting everyone else up and laughing at the results.

<You got me,> sighed Nat, smirking. <Although _some people_ make it very hard to find them a match. >

Yasha groaned wordlessly, drinking more cider to avoid answering. Nat had tried to set him up no less than seven times, all of which he’d declined as soon as he heard the idea. It was perhaps one of the few things he’d done that he could honestly say had truly stumped her. She couldn’t figure out if he was just not interested in her suggestions, gay, or not interested in dating altogether. When he implied that it was the lattermost, she’d scoffed and accused him of needing some confidence in himself, but he’d soon realized there were no more serious attempts to find his soul mate after that. Nat still harped on about it at times to make him feel guilty, though, because that was _Nat_.

<I’m just fine the way I am,> reiterated Yasha for possibly the millionth time since they’d become friends.

<Of course you are.>

There was a tiny ounce of skepticism there that had Yasha raising an eyebrow at her. <What?>

Nat shrugged. <Just agreeing with you.>

<First of all, you don’t agree with me, like, _ever_. Second, that was the most sarcastic agreement I’ve ever heard. >

A few minutes passed before she responded to that, looking out around the courtyard at everyone else having fun while Yasha continued to watch her. It was obvious she hadn’t forgotten his question as she uncharacteristically chewed on her chapped lips, so he just waited in silence. Eventually, she shrugged a shoulder and turned back to meet his eyes again.

<You’ve been doing better lately,> she pointed out.

She hadn’t made that sound like a good thing. Frowning, Yasha slowly responded, <Thanks…?>

_Okay, where’s the ‘but’?_

It took her a minute, then: <But…>

_Knew it._

<I don’t know.> Nat sighed heavily, obviously frustrated and trying not to show it. <You’ve been all over the place, and I’m _trying_ to respect your privacy, I really am. >

<Meaning Jarvis is telling you to mind your own business,> he amended with a sly smirk to cover the way his heart stuttered in his chest.

Nat punched his shoulder. <Asshole. Just… You know we’re here, right? You can talk and I’ll listen. I’ll probably be making some pretty harsh judgments the whole time, but I’ll still listen.>

Snorting, Yasha bumped her shoulder with his and shook his head. Leave it to Nat to take something tender and make it a little less emotional. At this point, he thought it was probably better than the alternative, especially with his Hogsmeade deadline looming.

<I know,> he assured her with a sigh, smiling a little before he added gratefully, <Thank you. For not asking.>

<You’re welcome.> A pause. <Even though it’s _killing_ me not to. I hope you know that. >

Yasha nodded solemnly. <I appreciate your sacrifice.>

They both laughed a bit at that before descending back into silence, Nat watching Skye and Scott nail each other with snowballs while Yasha trailed a finger through the snow next to his leg. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell Nat what was going on—well, he _didn’t_ , but he also _did_. It was the same way he did and didn’t want to tell everyone he knew, though. But if he told them, then that would mean discussing other things that he wasn’t even ready to _think_ about much less put into words. In spite of the necessity for secrecy and everything else, though, there was still a part of him that _wanted_ people to know who he had been once upon a time.

_Looks like you got your wish_ , he told himself anxiously. _Now you’ll get to see what a clusterfuck_ that _turns into._

Yasha glanced up to look at Nat, the weight of everything he regretted never telling her while simultaneously hoping he never had to adding to the rock in his stomach. He had one week to figure out how to say something he hadn’t been able to _imagine_ articulating. Maybe now was as good a time to practice as any.

<Hey, Nat?> he began reticently, dropping his eyes back to the ground as soon as she turned to look at him.

<Yeah?>

Clearing his throat, Yasha opened his mouth before he realized he had no idea how to say it. It took a minute before he really even knew _what_ he wanted to say at all.

<Do you think we can go back?>

He could hear the puzzlement in her tone as she slowly inquired, <Back where? Durmstrang?>

_God no_.

<No, not…not Durmstrang.> He paused, searching for the words. <I mean… Do you think _people_ can go back to…to being someone they were before? >

<Like, can we still be the same person even if we’re different?>

Yasha just nodded, thinking that was probably as articulate as it was going to get. There were a few uncomfortable minutes where they sat in silence, but Yasha didn’t try to push Nat to answer any faster. She’d given him time to pull his thoughts together—he could extend to her the same courtesy.

The answer he got, however, wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting.

<You know, when I was five, I lived in an orphanage.>

Blinking, Yasha’s eyes snapped back up but Nat wasn’t looking at him. She was staring sightlessly out at the snow, her gaze thousands of miles away.

<They kept saying how hard it was to find homes for older kids,> she continued after a long break, the hesitation making her words more stilted than he’d ever heard them. The conversation had already taken a turn into more personal waters than he thought they’d ever encountered together. <I mean, five isn’t old, but people wanted babies. They wanted kids they could _name_ , who would grow up not remembering where they came from. I guess that makes it easier to pretend they’re actually _yours_. >

She chuckled, harsh and humorless. <The woman who ran the place, Miss Yesikova, would tell us how we’d never be adopted. How we should give up trying to catch the eyes of the people who came looking for kids. She never got us pretty things to wear, so we looked like we were growing up on the street. Everyone thought we were dirty when they visited, but the babies… They were always clean. It wasn’t until we started school that anyone really noticed what was going on and reported it to the ACF and USAID. They shut the place down and sent us to other orphanages, but those ones were better. They put us with foster families.>

<Is that how you ended up with your family?> Yasha inquired softly when she stopped, desperately hoping that was the end of the story even though he already knew it wasn’t. Nat smiled sadly.

<Not at first. They placed me with an older couple. They were probably as old then as your aunt and uncle are now. They seemed nice—they gave me my own room, made sure I had enough to eat. They bought me nice clothes and sent me to a good school. I was…happy. I really thought they loved me for a while there.> She sighed, shaking her head. <Until I found out I had to repay their _kindness_. >

Yasha felt his eyes widen, but Nat still wasn’t looking at him.

<She was a drill sergeant. He was a pig. They were the perfect match,> she mused quietly, almost as though she’d forgotten he was sitting there. <One of my teachers at school noticed I had bruises on my wrist one day. I was taken away and I never saw them again. They rolled me through two other homes in six months before they put me with the Romanoffs. They’re the only family I’ve been with that didn’t try to pretend to be something they weren’t. I have food, clothes, everything I need—and they don’t expect anything in return. They even let me use their last name so I wasn’t the only kid at school who didn’t have one. They’re not warm fuzzy people and they’re obviously bigots, but… They’re not _bad_ people. It’s better than I can say for everyone else. >

They sat in silence, the sounds of their luckier classmates happily playing in the snow as if the world could be anything other than a horrible mess incongruous with the somber mood Nat and Yasha had fallen into. He wasn’t sure what to say—if there even _was_ anything to be said—so Yasha kept his mouth shut and gave Nat a few minutes to herself.

He’d idly wondered over the years what had happened to turn her into the person she was today: someone so loyal to her few friends yet steadfast in her assertions that love was for children. Now he knew.

Eventually, Nat sighed heavily beside him and seemed to shake herself before glancing over. There was a tiny, self-conscious smile on her face that he had never seen there before.

<What I’m trying to say, Yasha, is that we don’t leave behind who we were just because we’re different now. That naïve little girl who just wanted to be l—who just wanted happiness? She’s still in here.>

“Your world has changed and you’ve just lost sight of him. He’s still in here, though, if you only let him out,” the Sorting Hat had said when Yasha poured a bit of his soul out to it.

It had told him he was lost and would have to find his own way back. For Natasha, it took the constant reminder that what she had was better than what she’d left behind to remember that little girl. Maybe he just needed an anchor to keep him steady too.

Sniffing, Yasha nodded and blinked away the itchiness in his eyes. He ignored the cold under his ass to scoot over and wrap Nat up in his arms. He didn’t say anything. After all, there were no words. He just held her, and she lifted a hand to hold onto his forearm after a moment: a naïve little girl who was almost a woman and a guy trying to find a lost little boy in the darkness.

 

***

 

The following week was unseasonably warm, and Yasha couldn’t help but wonder if the weather was trying to reflect his skyrocketing nerves as they drew closer and closer to Saturday. Despite his heart-to-heart with Nat, he was still nervous as fuck and, by the time the morning he’d been dreading for almost two weeks rolled around, he was positive he wouldn’t be able to hide his anxiety from his friends for another moment.

Perhaps they could tell something was up and were attempting to be supportive, because Nat and Jarvis didn’t ask any questions when he told them he was going to stay back while they went to Hogsmeade. Pietro had tried to convince him to go, confidently stating that if he and Wanda had time then Yasha could make some, but he gently declined. There was no argument, no prodding or guilting or beguiling—they just said they’d bring him something from Honeydukes and left with the rest of the students heading into town, leaving Yasha standing on the steps outside the entrance hall.

Once he was alone, he took as deep a breath as he could manage and let it out slowly through pursed lips. _I can do this._

Just not without moral support.

Given that he hadn’t specified a time for their meeting, Yasha was in no rush as he returned to his dormitory and grabbed a heavier jacket than the hoodie he’d been wearing. Clint was still sleeping because he was practically _hibernating_ this time of year, but Sam was nowhere to be found. Winter, who had been rolling around in the middle of his bed with her monkey, stopped to watch as he slipped into his coat and stowed his wand in one of the interior pockets.

<Today’s the big day, Win,> he whispered with mock enthusiasm, scratching underneath her chin. <Wanna come watch me have a nervous breakdown?>

The little brat meowed happily, abandoning her monkey to leap into his outstretched arms. Laughing, Yasha unzipped his jacket, pulled her close, and zipped it back up around her; it may have been warmer than usual, but he still didn’t want her catching a chill.

At the last second, he plucked the monkey from the bed and put it in his pocket as he strolled back through the common room, down the corridor to the entrance hall, and out the front doors.

An awkward sense of déjà vu plagued him as he approached the Forbidden Forest, staring up at the trees that towered over him like dark sentinels to a hidden fortress. The sight was inconsistent with the blue sky beyond their leafless tops, as if winter and summer couldn’t decide who got to come out and play today. Yasha smiled a bit as he stepped into the shadow of the trees a few yards from the caretaker’s cabin, trudging through some shallow underbrush and climbing over a large fallen branch that hadn’t been there before to get where he’d told Steve to meet him.

The Spot hadn’t changed a bit. The dirt was still churned up where he and Steve used to sit against the largest of the trees, and Yasha had to wonder if Steve still came out here after he was gone. There was no overgrowth here, no fallen branches or nascent plants popping up to retake what was originally theirs. Even more than Hogwarts, ever unchanging in the distance, this place made him feel like he’d taken a step back three years.

Grinning wide despite his nerves, Yasha settled himself on the ground by their tree and pulled is knees up to his chest as far as he could without squishing Winter. She appeared to recognize where they were as well, although at least this time she didn’t try to wriggle around in the mud. Instead she mewed excitedly, taking in all the familiar sights and smells and tucking her head contentedly up under Yasha’s jaw.

<Yeah,> he murmured, stroking her fur. <I know what you mean.>

Yasha let the silence wash over him, feeling more at peace than he had in a long time, and closed his eyes while he waited. It was still fairly early, but he hadn’t been able to help himself; with his friends gone and his appetite in the toilet in anticipation for what he was about to do, there was nowhere else to be anyway. As the sun made its journey across the sky, however, a fleeting thought in the back of his mind made him wonder if maybe Steve wouldn’t even show up. Perhaps he had gone into town with Peggy and his friends, leaving his ghosts to stew at the castle without him. Yasha abandoned the idea without a second thought, though: that wasn’t Steve. He’d be there whether he had to fight through a pack of rabid werewolves, a sea of Inferi, and ten angry Sarah Rogerses to do it. He was just that stubborn.

It was nearing lunchtime when Yasha finally heard footsteps in the distance and opened his eyes, his heartbeat thumping a frantic tattoo in his ears. _This is it…_

Sensing his distress, Winter commenced licking the underside of his chin with her rough little tongue and nuzzling into his neck comfortingly. It helped a little, and Yasha was unspeakably glad he’d decided to bring her rather than coming alone.

After a few minutes, the footsteps paused for just a moment before Steve’s blond head poked around one of the trees blocking The Spot from view of the castle. Based on his gobsmacked expression and the fact that he froze right where he was standing, it looked like he hadn’t expected Yasha to be waiting there. Yasha was similarly stuck where he sat, both of them staring at each other unblinkingly for so long he thought his eyes might dry up and fall out of their sockets.

When the silence began to turn oppressive, Yasha cleared his throat and channeled the person he used to be before calling out in unaccented English, “You make it really hard to keep up a disguise, you know that?”

It would have been entertaining to see Steve’s eyes bug so far out of his head on any other occasion.

“Bucky?” he breathed in disbelief.

Yasha felt his mouth twitch involuntarily to the side in something that Steve clearly took as confirmation. That got him moving: the Gryffindor took halting steps toward him, a bundle of something held in his right hand, and dropped down on his knees facing Yasha barely two feet away. His eyes raked over Yasha’s face as if he would be able to see something he hadn’t all the other times they’d been near each other.

Still barely managing more than a whisper, Steve eventually shook his head and choked out, “I thought you were dead.”

Swallowing hard, Yasha was uncomfortable enough under his inspecting gaze to aim for some levity and gestured at Steve’s biceps. “I thought you were smaller.”

Steve huffed out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Jerk.”

“Punk.” Were his eyes tearing up, or was he imagining it?

Yasha wasn’t sure who moved first, but then they were holding on to each other as if they were afraid to let go. Steve’s enormous elephant-trunk arms squeezed him closely to his chest, simultaneously leaving just enough space between them for Winter to breathe while Yasha buried his face in Steve’s shoulder and inhaled deeply. Maybe it was a little weird—it was _definitely_ an invasion of some serious personal boundaries, _for fuck’s sake_ —but Steve still smelled like _home_. Yasha always smelled like an apartment in Moscow or a musty classroom at Durmstrang or a potion they were brewing in Erskine’s class. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d begun forgetting what home smelled like until it hit him in the face with the force of a wrecking ball.

Then he had the answer to his internal question: yes, those were tears in his eyes.

They stayed locked together for enough time that it probably crossed that invisible line into _weird_ territory, not that either of them gave a damn, before Yasha pulled back. Steve had tears running unchecked down his face, but he was smiling in a way that Yasha had come to associate with Sam or Peggy or one of his other friends in the last few months. He never thought he’d be the one to put it there again. 

“What the hell happened to you?” Steve demanded with a half-laugh, half-sob.

“It’s a really long story,” sighed Yasha, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, in case you hadn’t noticed,” teased Steve gently as he moved to sit beside Yasha against the tree, “I’ve got all day.”

Smirking, Yasha shrugged a shoulder and slouched back. He was in the middle of figuring out just where to begin when Winter started fidgeting for attention and, rolling his eyes, he unzipped his jacket to let her get at Steve. She immediately pounced on him, to Steve’s infinite delight.

“I knew it was you!” he cooed to the cat in baby-talk, letting her lick a stripe up his nose affectionately and attacking her belly with tickles. “I _knew_ it was you!”

Yasha snorted. “She’s a little traitor, you know. The second Jarvis opened our compartment door, she was _gone_. I almost had a heart attack. Figures she was just looking for your ugly mug.”

He was taken aback by the way his words flowed naturally as if they’d just been waiting for the opportunity. It felt like there was someone else speaking for him, someone who knew how to handle himself around Steve Rogers and who was comfortable in his own skin. The now normal feeling of wanting to hole up in his dormitory alone with his cat was beginning to fade away, leaving…he wasn’t sure _what_ in its place.

Steve, however, just laughed and shoved his shoulder, unaware that Yasha was currently having an identity crisis of epic proportions.

“She attacked me the second she saw me. When I got a good look at her, I just…” Steve shook his head, his expression turning sad. “I thought I was losing my mind.”

_I know the feeling, pal,_ Yasha silently commiserated. Oh how well he knew it.

Trying to stick to the positive side of things and keep the conversation on a track that _didn’t_ lead to talking about how he’d spent the last three years—at least not yet—Yasha chuckled, “I thought Clint was gonna beat the shit outta me in our room the first night back. He was asking me all these questions, and he wasn’t believing _any_ of the bullshit answers I gave him. Sam _literally_ dragged him off me after he started screaming in my face about how I stole his friend’s cat.”

Steve snorted in laughter and hung his head. “That must’ve been awful.”

“It was pretty bad,” he admitted. “And then Jarvis was getting all suspicious because I gave them that bogus name.”

“Which means _winter_ anyway, stupid.”

“Get off my back, asshole. I was improvising,” grumbled Yasha while flipping him the bird for good measure. “Not like you would’ve figured that out anyway if it wasn’t for T’Challa.”

“Okay, good point,” allowed Steve graciously.

They fell into an unbelievably comfortable silence, Yasha acclimating to this new and strange person living inside him while Steve appeared to be processing all the new information. It wasn’t too long, however, before he spoke again—he probably had enough questions to script _Jeopardy_ episodes for the rest of eternity.

“So, they don’t know who you are either?” he inquired curiously.

“Who?”

“Jarvis and the others.”

_Duh._ Shaking his head, Yasha sighed, “No one knows except my—“ He paused, not sure what to call them now before he settled on, “My guardians. And you, now.”

Steve frowned. “Were they the ones who were with you after the game?”

“Yeah. They used to live next to us in London, so they took me in when I started at Durmstrang.”

“Which happened…why?”

There was a note of uncertainty there, as if Steve wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know the answer but was forcing himself to ask anyway. Of course, it was also the question that would be the most difficult to answer because it required Yasha to unravel _everything else_ for him first.

_Where do you start when you tell someone about the worst thing that ever happened to you?_ he pondered silently.

The beginning was probably the best place.

“So…you know why I left early before Christmas, right?” he commenced, glancing over to see Steve nodding. “Did Coulson tell you why?”

“Not at the time,” murmured Steve with a grimace of residual displeasure over that fact. “He just said you got sent home. When you didn’t come back to school and my mom couldn’t reach your folks, she tried _everything_ she could think of to figure out what was going on.”

Frowning, Yasha inquired, “When did she?”

“Not until Stern told everyone about the assassination attempts, the death threats—then it was all over the _Daily Prophet_ anyway. They said you went into hiding, so…there was nothing else we could do. All of our owls were turned back by the Ministry. They said they weren’t forwarding messages through.”

That made Yasha bristle with indignation. The Ministry had been returning personal correspondence to the sender? His mom had always gotten what she needed for work, so Yasha had assumed that they were sending along anything that passed muster—he’d thought his friends just weren’t writing. How many letters had arrived addressed to him only to be sent back?

“I mean, they _said_ we couldn’t talk to anyone anyway, but—shit, Steve, I didn’t know. They never told us.” He wasn’t sure why it was so important to him that Steve understood this, but it _was_.

Smiling reassuringly, Steve squeezed his shoulder until Winter commanded his attention again. “It’s all right, Buck. We just kinda figured as long as you guys were safe, then that was all that mattered.”

“Sure,” fumed Yasha, folding his arms over his chest. “That worked out _great_.”

This time, the silence wasn’t nearly as relaxed. Yasha could sense Steve’s eyes on him, digging into the side of his face like claws, but Steve didn’t prompt him to continue. In the back of his mind, Yasha knew that if he said he didn’t want to talk about it, Steve wouldn’t question him; he’d let him keep his secrets and just be glad that he was apparently back.

But he couldn’t do that. He’d committed to this, and he had to see it through now if for no other reason than the fact that Steve fucking deserved it.

So he told him everything. He told him about the house they moved into in Romania, his parents’ plan to send him to Durmstrang with a false identity, changing his appearance, living with the Petrovs in Moscow, going to Durmstrang (and the steaming pile of horseshit that place was), and visiting his real family at Christmas and for a couple of weeks during the summer. He didn’t talk about how often he’d wondered if it was worth it to leave them just to learn magic. He didn’t talk about how he’d missed his parents and his friends so much that it was like someone drilled a hole through his heart. He didn’t talk about wondering for hours on end if they missed him the way he’d missed them.

Yasha just stuck to the facts, regurgitating exactly what had happened in an expressionless voice because it was the only way he would be able to get through this. It took a long time for him to even consider looking Steve in the eye after he finished, the sun significantly further along in the sky than it had been when he started spinning his tale.

When he finally managed to meet Steve’s gaze, he found a well of anger there that he was sure couldn’t be directed at him. Steve had said he wasn’t mad about Yasha not answering his messages, and aside from keeping this secret from him since the start of term, he hadn’t done anything that should have pissed him off.

And he hadn’t.

Of all the horrible things Steve could have commented on, he chose one that Yasha least expected.

“You didn’t even get to go to the funeral?” he demanded, eyes flashing in fury.

Yasha shrugged listlessly. Winter had crawled back into his lap about halfway through his story and was attempting to groom the side of his face, but he nudged her away and let her chew on his fingers instead. “It wasn’t safe.”

“Everyone thought you were _in_ one of those coffins—why the fuck wouldn’t it be _safe_?” At Yasha’s flinch, Steve exhaled deeply and visibly forced himself to chill the hell out before more calmly stating, “I just don’t get it.”

“I overheard Tatiana and Mikhail talking one day. They thought about going,” explained Yasha in the same monotone he’d used with everything else, “but they couldn’t take a chance I’d be recognized, not when half the world’s seen my face and this disguise didn’t really change much. Even _you_ were staring at me on the train.”

Steve pulled a face that clearly indicated he was unsatisfied with that line of logic. “I mean, you looked _familiar_ , but you didn’t look like _you_ —and I _know you_. Nobody else would have been looking when they thought you were dead anyway.”

“But someone’s gotta know I’m not,” countered Yasha. Steve’s eyebrows contracted in confusion.

“What do you mean by that?”

“There were four bodies in the house, which means _someone_ knows I wasn’t there. Probably the two assholes that got locked up in Azkaban. And if they were working for Hydra…”

There was no reason for him to finish that statement, so he let it hang in the air between them. Neither of them said anything for a long minute, Steve’s face screwed up in thought while Yasha just fought to maintain the composure he was proud to say he’d achieved heretofore.

After a while, Steve shook his head and breathed, “Who was the other person in the house?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” mumbled Yasha, kissing Winter’s forehead distractedly when she nudged it against his mouth. “If the Ministry hasn’t figured out it wasn’t me by now, I guess we’ll never know.”

“You haven’t even mourned them, have you?”

_That_ non sequitur hit Yasha like a sack of bricks, immediately winding him as he whipped his head around to stare openmouthed at Steve. “What?”

He didn’t answer at first, his eyes scanning every inch of Yasha’s face first. His expression was almost impassive in spite of the heavy weight of sadness in his voice as he repeated, “You haven’t mourned them.” It wasn’t a question this time.

Blinking rapidly, Yasha sputtered a few nonsensical attempts at a retort before his mind finally landed on, “What are you talking about? Of course I’ve mourned.” He almost laughed; it sounded like they were in the nineteenth century.

“No, you’ve _grieved_ ,” specified Steve, choosing his words carefully. “You haven’t mourned.”

“What the fuck, Steve—they’re the same thing!” he exclaimed, his chest heaving as a little bubble of _something_ began to inflate inside.

His outburst just made it that much worse: Steve squared his shoulders and turned to face him head on with that _Steve Rogers Is on a Mission_ look on his face.

“No, they’re not,” he insisted, moving his head to follow Yasha’s eyes every time he tried to look away. “You’ve been grieving—that’s why you’re still like this.” He waved a hand vaguely in Yasha’s direction. “You’re _pissed_ about what happened, you feel _guilty_ you weren’t there with them, and you’re _sad_ they’re gone. And that’s fine, but you should be trying to move forward now. Natasha and Jarvis talk about you more often than you think—I know how worried they are. Half the time, they can’t even find you because you’re hiding in your dorm—“

“Shut up, Steve,” Yasha whispered, almost inaudible even to his own ears, that bubble growing bigger and _bigger_. Steve just plowed right on.

“You hide behind _that face_ and pretend to be someone you’re not! You’ve been hiding from all of us—your _friends_ —for _months_!”

He was trembling now as he choked, “Stop…”

“You think if you just stick to the story, everything will go away on its own, but it _won’t_. Maybe you forgot I lost a parent _too_. I know what it feels like, and I know this is so much worse because of how it happened. But you _can’t_ let yourself get stuck where you are—you can’t hide behind Yasha fucking Smirnov and forget to be Bucky Ba—“

“ _Well, what the fuck do you expect me to do_?!”

The bubble burst. Yasha was suddenly on his feet—Winter scurried to hide under Steve’s leg.

“I’m not _Bucky Barnes_ , Steve—I haven’t been him for so long I don’t even know who he _is_ anymore!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “You think _talking_ about it is gonna _help_? Well then _great_ , let’s fucking _talk_ about it! Do you wanna hear about how I can’t even _sleep at night_ without seeing them _burning_? Or do you want me to tell you about how I wake up every morning scared that the dorm’s on fire and Sam and Clint and Jarvis are all _dead_ —how about _that_? Or maybe you want me to fucking tell you that I can’t _relax_ without knowing _exactly_ where my damn _cat_ is at all times because _she’s the last fucking thing I have left in the world_! Meanwhile I can’t be _me_ because _me_ is dead and buried somewhere— _I don’t even fucking know where_! And _I deserve that_ because they _needed me_ but here I am! Becca should have been a first year this year—she should’ve been on that damn train and she should have been excited and nervous and everything _we_ felt when it was _our turn_ but she _wasn’t_ because she was _dead and rotting in a hole in the ground instead_! And mom and dad—they just—they gave up _everything_ and it wasn’t enough—it didn’t _matter_ , _none_ of it and…we couldn’t—I wasn’t— _I wasn’t there_ and they’re gone and—I do-don’t even know who I a-a-am anym-m-more—“

His cheeks were burning. He couldn’t see more than random blurs of color. There was a terrible sound like an animal dying and he didn’t know where it was coming from because he was too worried about the fact that his chest was _hurting_ and he was _positive_ he was having a heart attack _for real_ this time…

Something solid and heavy locked around him right as his knees gave out, and he noticed a few things all at once:

First, the sound was coming from _him_.

Second, Steve was holding him tight.

And third, he couldn’t breathe through the sobs wracking his body.

It felt like someone had reached down his throat, gripped his heart in an unyielding fist, and was attempting to yank it out of his body while turning him inside out at the same time as he completely broke down. Every emotion—positive or negative—that he’d had for months came flying out at the same time until he wasn’t sure how there was anything left of him. He was sobbing hard enough to dislodge a lung and his whole body was trembling with the effort of not falling face-first onto the ground even _with_ Steve supporting him.

And Steve… Steve just took it. He didn’t try to speak or offer empty platitudes about how it would be all right because it _wouldn’t_. The world had ended: they could put the pieces back together and make something new, but what _was_ would never be all right again. It was gone, burnt to dust and blown away on the wind.

When Yasha eventually came back to himself enough to be aware of his surroundings, they were sitting on the ground. Steve’s arms were still around him, rocking them back and forth slightly with Yasha’s head pillowed on his chest. Winter was in his lap, where she alternated between licking his cheek and nuzzling under his jaw.

Yasha was _wrecked_. He didn’t feel pain or anguish or sadness or relief or _anything_ —he was entirely numb as the last of the tremors rocked through his body.

Little things occurred to him: the sun dipping lower towards the horizon, the distant noise of students returning from Hogsmeade, the steady sound of Steve’s heartbeat next to his ear reminding him that there was still life in the world even when it seemed like that was impossible. For a moment, that was all there was in the universe and everything was okay.

But it couldn’t stay that way forever. Yasha sniffled, scrubbing the back of his hand over his cheeks to wipe away the evidence of his breakdown as he pulled away from Steve. His jeans were filthy from sitting in the dirt and only got worse when he shifted to lean up against the tree again.

“Sorry,” he muttered hoarsely, clearing his throat in a fruitless attempt to sound more human.

“It’s okay,” assured Steve quietly, moving to sit shoulder to shoulder. “Sorry I pushed.”

Yasha shook his head. “Everyone else has been walking on eggshells around me—even Nat, which is weird. It’s… _nice_ , having someone tell me I’m being a dumbass.”

Snorting, Steve offered, “I’d be happy to do it more often.”

“Whatever, I’m still hiding in the dormitory tonight, so knock yourself out.”

They both chuckled softly and Steve pulled over the bundle he’d brought with him earlier. It was just a simple cloth, but he unfolded it to reveal that he’d loaded up some peanut butter sandwiches he’d probably gotten from the Great Hall before coming out here. He grabbed one for himself and held the cloth out to Yasha, who shook his head.

“Not really hungry,” he explained apologetically.

Steve hummed noncommittally and pointed out in passive censure, “Yeah, Sam said you’re not much for eating food.”

Yasha rolled his eyes and shot back, “Well, not _all_ of us need to eat ten horses and drink the blood of our enemies to stay fit. Seriously, Steve, what the hell happened to _you_?”

“Uh, puberty, I guess? And Quidditch workouts?” shrugged Steve before digging in his pocket to pull something out. “But I did have some help.”

He held his palm out and opened it to reveal the talisman Yasha had gotten him for his twelfth birthday, laughing at his gaping face.

“You think I’d get rid of it?” he teased, returning the stone to his pocket. Yasha laughed breathlessly and shook his head.

“I mean, the spells wear off ‘n stuff, so why would you carry around a rock for no reason?”

“I got the spell renewed,” explained Steve as if it were the simplest thing in the world. He took a bite of his sandwich and continued through a mouthful of peanut butter, “Had an asthma attack during one of our matches last year—first time in _years_. So I mailed it home and Ma got it fixed up. Haven’t had any issues since.”

“Huh. Son of a bitch.”

“Hey, don’t talk about my mom like that.”

Yasha snorted, rolling his eyes. Something was triggered, though, because Steve fell silent and frowned down at the rest of the sandwich in his hand. When he looked up again, Yasha could see the conflict in his eyes.

“I can’t tell my mom, can I?”

“No!” exclaimed Yasha in immediate panic. Steve started at his outburst, so Yasha smiled weakly in apology and tried again. “I mean, you can’t tell _anyone_.”

“Do you think you’d be in danger if people found out?” inquired Steve, his eyes hard and protective.

Yasha thought about that for a minute before slowly responding, “I don’t know. It was never really _me_ they were after, so I don’t see why I would be. I just…” He had to take a deep breath before he could say the next words, his voice wavering slightly nonetheless. “Mom and Dad tried so hard to keep us safe. I don’t want to risk that. And I… I don’t think I’m… _ready_ for people to know yet, anyway. If that makes sense.”

Steve nodded automatically, understanding him the way he always did: without superfluous words. “It’s okay. I just thought… It really hit her hard, you know? Finding out you guys were gone.”

A lump rose up in Yasha’s throat, and he opened his mouth to breathe deeply around the obstruction. He didn’t think there were any tears left for him to shed, but he didn’t want to risk finding out anyway.

“Well, um… I mean, we could… We’ll tell her,” he promised softly. “Just…maybe not right now?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” vowed Steve with a supportive nod.

Yasha managed a tremulous smile. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Buck. Although,” he added, his expression lightening a bit, “I guess this means things still have to be the same. Wouldn’t want anyone getting suspicious if we suddenly start to pal around.”

“Yeah, that’s true. _Although_ ,” he echoed with a small grin, “it’s not like you don’t have a _girlfriend_ to keep your mind off it.”

Steve’s ears turned pink. “Oh, knock it off.”

“Seriously, Rogers, Peggy Carter? I’m proud. She’s a hell of a girl.” Yasha was only half teasing at that point, and he knew Steve was aware of it, his smile turning a little more mushy as he adjusted his hair bashfully.

“I honestly didn’t think she’d go for a guy like me,” he confided quietly, as if saying it too loud would make Peggy appear to break up with him for daring to admit it aloud.

“Did it happen pre- or post-beefcake?”

He squawked in indignation as Steve shoved him over into the dirt, his jacket getting mud on the sleeve.

“ _Before_ , you ass,” Steve replied with all the dignity in the world as Yasha flipped him off.

_Good,_ he thought happily. He’d realized back in their first year that Peggy could see through Steve’s unimpressive exterior to the heart hiding within. It was nice to know that it wasn’t the muscles that did it for her.

“Well,” he sighed, shaking his head in mock disappointment, “I guess there’s no accounting for taste.”

After everything that had transpired between them so far that day, Yasha realized the most painful was when over two hundred pounds of vengeful Steve Rogers landed on top of him and tackled him to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The part Bucky says (see: shouts) about not being himself for so long that he doesn't know who that person is anymore is an adapted version of a quote from "Political Animals."
> 
> Is everyone feeling a little better now? :)


	10. Truth Will Out

<And where are you going this time?>

Blinking, Yasha froze in the process of getting up from the Hufflepuff table to see Nat staring him down with narrowed eyes. Jarvis was studiously ignoring both of them, his face practically touching his plate as he became very interested in his beef stew.

<Uh…I’m done?>

Nat didn’t even roll her eyes, which meant he was _really_ in trouble.  <I’m aware of that. Not that half a bowl of stew and two bites of a roll can really be called _done_ , but we’ll leave that for later. This is the second week in a row you’ve disappeared.>

<Just going for a walk,> shrugged Yasha innocently. He resisted the urge to look down at the floor; dealing with Nat was a little like handling a big dog—as long as you maintained eye contact and didn’t let her smell your fear, she didn’t tear you to pieces. Most of the time.

<A walk,> she repeated mildly. <It’s below freezing outside.>

<I’ll wear an extra jacket?>

They stared at each other in silence for a minute, unstoppable force meeting immovable object, then Nat just shrugged her shoulders and turned back to her dinner. <Okay. Have fun.>

_That was…way too easy. What the hell?_

<Thanks…> Yasha tested the waters, pulling his other leg out from under the table, but neither Nat nor Jarvis said anything else as he made his way towards the doors.

He was almost out of earshot when he heard Nat’s singsong voice following him: <But I’ll find out eventually.>

 _I don’t doubt that_ , smirked Yasha silently, waving a hand over his shoulder as he stepped out into the entrance hall. It really was only a matter of time before she figured out his weekly appointments on her own, not that he was trying to keep it from happening so much as postponing the inevitable.

The front doors were closed but unlocked since curfew was still a couple of hours off yet, so Yasha pulled them open and strode down the front steps. Glancing around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he broke into a run towards the Forbidden Forest once he was certain he was completely alone. Unfortunately, Nat had been right about the temperature; his hands were already raw and his lips chapped by the time he made it to the tree line. That didn’t matter, though. It was Wednesday, and he’d be damned if he was going to miss it.

“I think we need a new Spot, or at least a seasonal one,” Steve remarked the second Yasha arrived, his teeth chattering in spite of his heavy coat and hat. He’d built a fire—plus a little stone basin to hide the glow from the castle as the sun sank lower in the sky—so at least they weren’t _totally_ without warmth.

Grinning, Yasha threw himself down next to him in nothing but his school robes with his leather jacket thrown over top. “Don’t be such a wimp, Stevie. It’s _only_ freezing out here.”

Snorting, Steve grumbled, “Yeah, says the guy who’s been living in the Arctic for three years.”

“It has its uses.”

“So I see.”

In spite of the cold, they grinned at each other and settled in next to the fire. Wednesdays had become Steve Night again—the one day of the week that they could spend time together without everyone else knowing. Just like the old days, they stowed their bags after their classes let out, grabbed an early dinner, and then staggered their exits to head to The Spot so no one else would be the wiser. Sure, they still saw each other in classes and during their study sessions, but it wasn’t as if they could be _them_. They had to pretend to be just acquaintances when they were around their other friends; at meals, they didn’t sit together at all. For a couple of hours on Wednesdays, they could come out here and be who they were—or Steve could. Yasha was still trying to figure out who that was, but it was getting a little easier with time.

It had been almost two weeks since their first _real_ conversation about what had happened, and Wednesday had just been the most natural time to meet. Steve had filled him in on just about everything that had transpired at Hogwarts since Yasha had left last time: brief snapshots of what had been going on in Quidditch and who’d won the cup every year, entertaining anecdotes about their classes, updates on what their friends had been up to, rumors about Professor Ross possibly having a _thing_ with Professor Banner—everything he could think of. They talked about how strange it had been for him to shoot up a foot and gain over a hundred pounds; they discussed how different it was to be seen as someone who could _actually_ back up what he was saying (which made it no surprise that the fights had all but ceased until Rumlow opened his stupid mouth at the station). Steve filled him in on everything that had been happening in his mom’s life, which was surprisingly little, but Yasha got the distinct impression that he was holding something back on that one. There were a few moments where they reached a snag in the conversation, stumbling over some sensitive topics and working past the obstacles until everything felt natural again. Wednesday had already become Yasha’s favorite day of the week and gave him something to look forward to, a reason not to hide _every_ moment.

If Yasha thought their second meeting would see the beginnings of the awkwardness that had been absent from the prior ones, he was happily mistaken. Steve immediately went off on a tirade about Tony’s latest idiocy, because apparently they actually _were_ sort of friends in a way these days. Yasha had teased him mercilessly for it last week, but he’d fallen silent when Steve explained that Tony’s pranks at least cheered him and the others up a bit after Yasha had left. He wouldn’t begrudge him anything he had to do to feel better about things, even if that _did_ mean spending more time in the presence of one Tony Stark.

“I told him the stunt he pulled at Halloween was bad enough—and he’s _still_ running around the school apologizing to the people he missed, by the way—but he just _insists_ that it’ll be amazing,” ranted Steve, rolling his eyes.

Yasha smirked, shaking his head and pointing out, “I’m not sure if you’ve realized this, pal, but Tony might have just a _little_ bit of narcissism going on up here.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “It’s his last year. I think he’s determined to go out with a bang.”

“Which is the last thing _any_ of us needs,” murmured Steve darkly. Yasha couldn’t help but agree, the memories of the Bogus Boggart still uncomfortably fresh in his mind. Thankfully, Steve didn’t let him get lost in that mental fiasco as he continued, “Peggy told him a seventh-year graduation prank was a terrible idea, so at least he has that to think about.”

“You really think that’ll matter?” scoffed Yasha incredulously. The day Tony took orders from someone else was the day he ate Winter— _never_.

Steve grinned, a frankly _evil_ gleam in his eye. “It made a pretty big difference when Peggy warned him she’d rip his balls off and feed them to the giant squid in the Black Lake if he did anything to distract them from N.E.W.T.s or ruin graduation.”

Thinking back to how Peggy had taken Rumlow down on their first night, Yasha barely suppressed a shudder. “Point taken.”

After a hum of agreement, Steve reached out to the fire to warm his hands, pulling in a deep breath and furtively glancing sideways at Yasha when he thought the latter wasn’t looking. (He was.) There was a strange expression on his face that, for once, Yasha couldn’t quite identify. Every time he tried to catch Steve’s eye, he would look away as though he’d been caught, and it was beginning to make him uneasy.

“Okay,” he finally said after getting thoroughly sick of the whole cat-and-mouse game. “Either you’ve got something you wanna say or you need a bathroom. Which one is it?”

Steve laughed, but it was as strained as the tense set of his shoulders. “You’re gross, y’know that?”

“And _you’re_ avoiding the question.” _When did I become Nat?_

“Yeah, okay,” admitted Steve reticently. He didn’t answer right away, though, staring down into the flames with a serious frown on his face. Yasha wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Steve look less like the kid he grew up with and more like the man he was becoming until the moment Steve raised his eyes with a determined huff. “What’re you going to do for Christmas?”

Of all the potentially uncomfortable topics Yasha had been expecting, Christmas was admittedly nowhere near the top of the list. He supposed it was only natural that Steve was asking, though; Thanksgiving had been the week before and Christmas was right around the corner. It would only be a couple more weeks until they went on holiday, and Yasha would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. He still hadn’t broached the subject with Tatiana in his letters, but he thought for sure he’d be allowed to go back to Moscow and spend the holiday with them. They were Jewish, so it wasn’t as if they actually _celebrated_ it; at least it would be better than staying at Hogwarts all alone while everyone else went home, though. He’d mentally prepared himself in the event that he needed to do just that, but…he _really_ didn’t want to if he had a say in the matter.

 _They’ve already done so much for you anyway_ , he reminded himself strictly. _It’s not fair to put one more burden on them._

It wasn’t like he was going to tell _Steve_ any of that, though—he’d dumped enough on his head two weeks ago to last them at least two decades—so he shrugged instead. Now it was his turn to avoid eye contact, it seemed.

“Uh, I don’t really know yet,” he eventually answered. It was honest, anyway. “I might go back to Moscow. Haven’t really decided.”

“Have the Petrovs offered?” inquired Steve curiously.

“Not really. I don’t know if they think it’s an unspoken thing and just _expect_ I’m going to be going back or not. I’ll probably write them this weekend and see if they’ve got other plans.”

“And if they do?” he fired off immediately.

Frowning, Yasha looked up and shrugged nonchalantly. “Then I’ll probably just stay here.”

That was obviously not a sufficient answer. Steve raised an eyebrow and deadpanned, “Alone.”

“Um…yeah? I mean, you said Clint and Sam are going home and I know Jarvis is visiting his family,” he outlined slowly, seeing that the excuse really wasn’t helping. _What does he want me to do—kidnap them and make them stay?_

“What about Natasha?” Steve demanded, his frown deepening further as he seemed to ramp himself up for something.

“She usually goes back to Russia.” Yasha smirked as he explained, “Her foster parents are assholes, but she gets pretty good gifts out of them.”

The joke fell flat as Steve summarized, “So you don’t have any set plans and, at the worst, you’ll be spending Christmas alone.”

 _Well, when he says it like that…_ “It’s really not that bad, Steve,” he attempted to console him calmly.

“It really _is_ , Buck,” argued Steve heatedly. He took a deep breath and tried to make his tone more sympathetic as he observed, “It’s your first Christmas without…without your family, Bucky. Don’t you want more than to just sit here by yourself and spend it alone?”

Yasha didn’t answer him, turning his eyes back to the fire. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about that—the idea of not getting to spend Christmas with his family this year when he had been able to even while he was at Durmstrang hurt him more than any words could describe—but what else was he going to do? He wouldn’t burden Tatiana and Mikhail with his presence, especially when they might feel obligated to get him something for the occasion although they didn’t celebrate it themselves. That only left one option, distasteful as it was.

“It’s no big deal, Steve. It doesn’t bother me,” he lied smoothly, accustomed enough to keeping his thoughts to himself by now that it actually sounded pretty convincing. Deciding that was enough of _that_ conversation, he diverted the subject to Steve. “What about you? Have you asked Peggy to spend Christmas with you and your mom?”

It wouldn’t have surprised him if Steve had done just that. While they were catching up the previous week, he’d mentioned that he and Peggy had been dating since towards the end of his fourth year, so it wasn’t exactly a casual relationship. (He’d also said that neither of them was ready to talk about next steps until well after they were out of school, though, so they were taking it slower than snails going the wrong direction on a moving walkway.)

Clearly thrown by the question, Steve shook his head and waved it off. “No, she and her family always go to Paris for Christmas—and don’t change the subject.”

“What _subject_?” countered Yasha with a humorless chuckle. “I answered your question—case closed.”

“Not closed,” argued Steve, glaring furiously at him.

Still, Yasha folded his arms and muttered, “Sounded pretty clo—“

“Come home with me.”

For just the slightest fraction of a second, Steve looked like he regretted just blurting that out. Then his features hardened with resolve and he commenced staring Yasha down as the latter gaped at him, utterly speechless. It took a minute before he was able to articulate anything, and when he did, he had to clear his throat a few times to make his voice work.

“Come home with you,” he ended up parroting back mindlessly.

Steve nodded in what was probably meant to be encouragement. “Yeah. You know we’ve got plenty of room, and Mom’ll be so excited—“

“Which would require _telling_ her,” interjected Yasha, scowling.

“What would be so wrong with that?” sighed Steve in exasperation. “I’m not saying we tell her _tomorrow_ , but I can let her know I’ve got a friend I want to bring home. It’ll be the best Christmas present _ever_.”

Groaning, Yasha ran his hands through his hair and tugged. “Steve…”

“That gives you another few weeks before—“

“Before she gets a fucked up loser for a present,” Yasha snarled venomously, his temper flaring up. Steve blinked at him, his argument derailed by Yasha’s vehemence.

“Buck, that’s not—“

“It _is_ , Steve. It _is_. I’m…” He trailed off a moment, steeling himself to say what he’d only just recently been able to admit to _himself_. “I’m not okay. I’m a fucking mess, and I don’t want her to _see me_ like this.”

“But Bucky,” Steve rebutted in as soothing a tone as he could muster, “maybe it would _help_. Maybe it would be better to have someone else you can trust who isn’t just _me_.”

Snorting derisively, Yasha gesticulated towards himself. “And what happens when she finds out I’m not _me_ anymore? What’s gonna happen when she realizes I’m not who she thought she would see—that I’m not who _you_ think you’re seeing half the time.”

“Don’t say that—you’re still Bucky Barnes no matter what you think.”

“Bullshit, Steve.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve scooted closer, his features set in determination. “I saw _you_ the second we looked at each other on the train. You said it before—I _recognized_ you in there. Maybe it took me a while to figure it out—“

“You _didn’t_ figure it out. I _told_ you.”

“Whatever,” Steve waved him off dismissively. “You’re still in there. More and more of you has been coming out every day, and I know you’ve seen that. Or am I wrong?”

Yasha bit his tongue and remained silent. He couldn’t argue: he _had_ been feeling more and more like someone new every day since airing his secrets to Steve. Maybe not the same person he’d been a few years ago before the world went to shit, but another version of him. He found himself laughing a little more, hiding a little less.

But he’d learned the hard way that hope was dangerous, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to give it another try.

Swallowing hard around the sudden lump in his throat, Yasha whispered, “What if she’s disappointed in me?”

Steve’s hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing firmly before he confidently assured him, “She won’t be.”

“How do you know?” he scoffed, turning his head to meet Steve’s eyes. They were steadfast; it was obvious he believed every word he was saying, whether they were really true or not.

“Because she’ll be so happy to have you back that nothing else is gonna matter, Buck.”

Yasha blinked at him for a minute before exhaling slowly and burying his face in his hands. They’d agreed to tell Sarah when he was ready—but who was to say that he ever would be? No matter how much of himself was left in the shell he’d been reduced to over the summer, he would never be that same kid. That was the kid who Sarah would be looking for, the one she’d written to say she was proud of who he’d been becoming back then. The prospect of revealing what he was now was nerve-wracking; he didn’t have the confidence that Sarah would _like_ who he’d become instead, regardless of how much Steve seemed positive she’d be able to see him the way Steve did. Was it better to put it off and face it later or to just rip off the bandage and let the pieces fall where they may?

Was it worth the heartache of disappointing her just to avoid spending a few days alone in his dorm the way he frequently wanted to anyway?

“Can I think about it?” Yasha eventually requested, glancing timidly up at Steve through the curtains of his hair.

Expression softening in understanding, Steve nodded once. “Of course. I’ll just let her know I have a friend who _might_ not have anywhere to go for Christmas but who hasn’t decided whether he’d want to come over to our place yet. Sound good?”

_Well…it’s start, anyway._

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

 

***

 

Thursday morning was the stuff bad days were made of. One day, Yasha was determined to learn not to read the _Daily Prophet_.

<It’s reaching a bit, don’t you think?> Jarvis was asking Nat over breakfast, gesturing to the article they’d been talking about when Yasha slumped his way into the Great Hall. True to traditional Steve Night rules, they hadn’t gotten back to the castle until late, which meant it was going to be one _really_ long day.

Nat narrowed her eyes at the newspaper where it was spread over the table in front of them and shook her head. <Something’s not right. It’s a little too convenient.>

Yasha figured he’d regret asking, but he tentatively inquired as he reached for the cereal, <What’s a little too convenient?>

<The latest Ministry bungle,> replied Jarvis, turning the _Prophet_ sideways so Yasha could get a good view of the headline: “FIVE CHILDREN GO MISSING IN OPEN WIZARD-MUGGLE NEIGHBORHOOD.”

<That sucks,> murmured Yasha, attempting to remain as detached as possible. Jarvis, however, didn’t plan to make that easy for him.

<It gets better.>

 _Of course it does. It_ always _gets better._ Sighing, Yasha pulled the paper closer and squinted down reluctantly at the words.

 

> _Within the last two weeks, five children under the age of nine have gone missing from a community just outside Bebington across the River Mersey from Liverpool. The town became the first in England to attempt a completely open Muggle-wizard community, where all Muggle residents are aware of and live cooperatively with their magical neighbors, after petitioning the Ministry of Magic to make an exception to the International Statute of Secrecy._
> 
> _In the last two years since the community was created, both sides have thrived and lived peacefully. Of all the Muggle or Wizarding settlements throughout Great Britain, Bebington has seen the lowest crime rates and highest turnout in democratic processes. Wizards and Muggles work together in various employment opportunities; their children attend the same schools in full knowledge of the unique traits of each student’s family. While the decision to create an open community faced some opposition (in spite of Ministry-wide applause under the Stern administration), its accomplishment is incontrovertible._
> 
> _However, recent events have called into question just how successful the experiment in Bebington truly is. Within the last two weeks alone, five children have gone missing from the community: Scott Summers (5), Kurt Wagner (7), Ororo Munroe (7), Jean Grey (6), and now Emma Frost (8). The disappearances had been considered unrelated until yesterday, when investigators from the Ministry determined that all five children bore certain characteristics in common. While their parents insisted that they were not friends and rarely had any relations in the school they attended, all five were half-bloods who recently exhibited the first signs of having powers._
> 
> _Investigators claim that this may not necessarily mean anything at all, but in a speech yesterday, Minister Pierce confessed that he disagreed._
> 
> _“Muggles have historically feared people who are different from them, particularly when that difference involves something they cannot understand,” claimed the Minister. “To put harmless children in a community with Muggles who then see their magic evolve to become something powerful and unfathomable immediately transforms them from children into threats. And when Muggles are threatened, terrible things have always occurred.”_
> 
> _Pending further investigation, the Wizarding families of Bebington have been evacuated to Ministry-provided housing for their own safety. Renewed rhetoric from the Minister seems to point toward the potential tightening of security and a newfound determination to pass the Security Insight Protocol legislation proposed this past summer. He also announced that measures are already being drawn up to find the children, punish the Muggles potentially involved in their disappearances, and provide reassurance to the Wizarding community that such a situation will not be repeated._
> 
> _For more on the disappearances – page 11_
> 
> _For more on the history of Bebington – page 12_
> 
> _For more on the Security Insight Protocol – page 13_

<He’ll do anything to get that stupid bill through,> growled Yasha under his breath, wholly disgusted by the entire article.

Jarvis nodded sagely. <I pity the poor Muggle who gets blamed for this.>

<Same here.> Yasha made to hand the _Prophet_ back to Jarvis when another article caught his eye. It was down towards the bottom of the front page, one of the sidebars that were _important_ but not enough to get the big headline. Two familiar faces were glaring up at him, staring around a room Yasha couldn’t see as they held up identification cards for their mug shots.

 

> FORMER UNDERSECRETARY’S MURDERERS FOUND DEAD IN CELLS
> 
> _Frank Castle and Wilson Fisk were both found dead in their cells in Azkaban Tuesday morning. Both wizards were convicted of murder and other charges related to the slaughter of former Senior Undersecretary Barnes, her husband, and their two children earlier this year._
> 
> _Aurors on the scene stated that the investigation is ongoing, but the current cause of death is unknown in both situations. There were no marks on the bodies and no poisons in their systems during autopsies on Wednesday. Each was found on the floor of his cell, which ruled out suicide through hanging. There was no evidence of bodily harm to either Castle or Fisk, nor were any sharp objects or blunt-force weapons located in their cells. Neither had received any visitors since their incarceration._
> 
> _A high-ranking source at the Ministry has stated that while they have not yet ruled out foul play, they will continue looking into potential methods the prisoners may have used to commit suicide throughout the investigation._
> 
> _For more on Castle and Fisk – page 15_
> 
> _For more on the case of the former Undersecretary’s death – page 16_

He should probably have felt any number of emotions—anger that the men who killed his family didn’t get a chance to rot in Azkaban for the rest of their lives, vicious satisfaction that they’d died after what they did, aggravation that he hadn’t gotten a chance to watch, happiness that justice was served, sadness that it didn’t change a damn thing. So many sentiments should have been floating through his head, but Yasha didn’t feel anything but emptiness as he continued to stare down at the article numbly.

They were gone. They’d killed his family and now they were gone. In a sick sort of way, it was poetic irony: was Yasha forever doomed to be the last one standing in the clusterfuck that was the last three years?

<Hey, Yasha?>

Blinking, he glanced up to see both Nat and Jarvis observing him worriedly, realizing that he’d probably been staring down at the paper for an inordinate amount of time to get that reaction. He cleared his throat, but his voice was still croaky when he answered, <Yeah?>

Jarvis pointed towards the doors to the Great Hall. <Time to go to class.>

 _Shit_ , sighed Yasha to himself. He’d _actually_ been a bit hungry this morning, although his appetite had flown out the window as soon as he’d read those articles so he probably shouldn’t complain about not getting to eat his breakfast. Nevertheless, it was a shame.

He really, _really_ needed to learn _not_ to read the fucking paper.

Abandoning his cereal to retrieve his schoolbag, Yasha stood and waited for the others to grab their things before they made their way to the entrance of the Great Hall. He let Jarvis and Nat take the lead, hovering a few steps behind them in an attempt to avoid conversation only to have someone nudge his arm a second later.

 _Can’t catch a break_.

It wasn’t as bad as he thought, however, when he glanced up to see Steve had somehow snuck up on his right side. He wore a grim frown as he murmured quietly enough for no one else to hear, “Did you see it?”

After a quick peek around to make sure everyone nearby was appropriately engrossed in their own conversations, Yasha nodded. “Fisk and Castle?”

“Yeah.”

“I saw it.”

“What the hell?”

Yasha could only shrug his shoulders, both he and Steve taking a few steps away from each other when Nat glanced back at him over her shoulder. He couldn’t tell if she knew that he’d been talking to Steve or not; she just raised a curious eyebrow and turned back around to watch where she was walking as they approached Professor May’s classroom for Defense Against the Dark Arts. They didn’t get a chance to continue the conversation—for which Yasha was immeasurably grateful—before they stepped inside and had to take their respective seats on opposite sides of the classroom. He could tell that Steve wanted to talk more about it, though; he even unsuccessfully tried to approach Yasha again during class changes and at lunch, but something or someone always seemed to get in the way.

_Thank goodness for small miracles._

It wasn’t necessarily that Yasha didn’t want to talk about it—he just didn’t know what there was to say. It was a little like how he’d felt after he found out about his family: there was plenty to think about, yet every time he considered putting those thoughts into words, there was nothing there. At least at Hogwarts he could find any number of things to occupy his time that would effectively distract him.

Their study session, for example, was a good one.

Wanda was more accomplished now than everyone but Yasha himself at casting spells nonverbally, with Clint right behind her (especially when the spell involved food). The others were pretty hit or miss, although Steve was catching on quick these days. He’d said on Wednesday (with only _partial_ sarcasm) that he thought a lot of his newfound ability had to do with his mental calm as the result of not thinking he was going nuts seeing Yasha’s old mannerisms where they shouldn’t exist. It made Yasha feel incongruously pleased to have helped yet guilty for not having done it sooner. Steve wasn’t the _best_ at casting some of the bigger spells without speaking yet, but he was well on his way.

Of course, that was probably why he suggested they try sparring during their study session that night instead of just casting spells at random inanimate objects.

 _Leave it to Steve fucking Rogers to find a way to fight without needing a reason,_ mused Yasha fondly. Yasha wasn’t stupid enough to think there was no purpose for it, however; after what they’d read that morning and the thinly veiled irritation in the set of Steve’s shoulders all day, he probably needed a way to burn off some of the residual anger he’d felt. Yasha figured it might actually be a good idea—his own heart had begun beating a bit faster about halfway through the day as he dwelt on the Ministry’s incompetence in simultaneously believing Pierce’s bullshit and letting Fisk and Castle die so easily.

He was _angry_ , and a little sparring might be just the thing he needed to cool the fuck back down.

So he and Steve stood facing each other from opposite ends of the empty classroom they always used for their study sessions after dinner, holding their wands at the ready and waiting for the other to make the first move. Yasha refused to let it be him, knowing that that was exactly what Steve would want but that he was also _impatient_ and couldn’t wait forever the way Yasha could.

He was correct. After a minute or two of simply staring at each other warily, Steve flicked his wand just enough for Yasha to recognize that he was mentally casting a spell the split second before a red jet of light shot out at him.

 _Protego!_ he thought, his shield leaping up in front of him to block the spell as it made contact. He pulled his wand up to end the spell and immediately followed up with, _Rictusempra!_

Steve, the little shit, literally _sidestepped_ his Tickling Charm with a smirk rather than magically blocking it so he could automatically send a spell back at Yasha.

_Two can play at that game, Rogers._

Yasha dodged the purple spell, pointed his wand at the globe on a bookshelf behind Steve, and thought, _Accio Globe!_

“ _Owch_ , dammit!” Steve cursed, rubbing the back of his head as the heavy structure made contact with his cranium on its way across the room into Yasha’s outstretched hand. Sam and Clint were laughing raucously from the sidelines, even going so far as to applaud while T’Challa and Nat wore nearly identical smirks.

After that, they exchanged spells in rapid succession as each tried to get the upper hand on the other. Yasha let Steve get in some practice—he could still be a bit slow with his spells when he was trying to focus his mind—before pulling out all the stops.

He blocked one of Steve’s spells, not giving him enough time to prepare for Yasha’s return fire before thinking, _Expelliarmus!_

Steve’s wand flew out of his unprepared hand while he comically watched it sail across the room. Since he was thoroughly distracted, Yasha shrugged and figured, _Why the hell not?_

_Levicorpus!_

There was a wordless yelp of indignity as Steve’s ankle was yanked out from under him, hoisting him into the air so he had to glare around the room upside down from the ceiling while the others laughed at his predicament. The look he shot Yasha was pure (feigned) venom as he twitched an eyebrow in obvious acknowledgement of the irony. Yasha shrugged innocently in response only to get the finger right back. It had probably been a long time since anyone was brave enough to hang beefcake Steve Rogers up by his ankles, however, so Yasha couldn’t have him getting a big head or anything.

Needless to say, by the time they finished practicing and jeering at each other’s successes and failures, Yasha was feeling infinitely better than he had that morning. When they separated for the night to head back to their respective dormitories, he hung back a bit to shoot Steve a glance he hoped conveyed how much he appreciated the pick me up. From the grin he got in return, he figured the message was well-received.

 

***

 

“Yo, Yash!”

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Yasha smiled as Clint collapsed into the seat across from him at the Hufflepuff table on Friday morning. They’d all gotten to sleep in a bit when Stark canceled Charms (for _personal reasons_ that probably had _nothing_ to do with Tony’s apparent decision to bring his latest invention to class the day before—a stuffed Blast-Ended Skrewt that mercifully shot out slime instead of fire), so Clint was actually _awake_ and at breakfast _on time_ for once on a weekday. Yasha figured they should probably mark the calendar to commemorate the date for years to come.

The feeling only intensified when he grinned at Yasha, Jarvis, and Sam before stuffing a whole pancake in his mouth.

“Okay,” commented Sam with narrowed eyes, “you’re way too happy this morning.”

“I’m sure I have no clue what you’re talking about Samuel,” protested Clint with an innocent shrug in Yasha’s direction.

_Oh yeah, that motherfucker’s up to something all right._

<You may as well spit it out before Sam drags it out of you,> he reasoned once he was sure Clint’s purple earpiece was already in. That in itself was another anomaly: usually Clint had to be reminded to activate his translator around Yasha. Either he was having a _really_ productive day or something was up.

Never had he (or Steve, based on the stories) witnessed Clint having a productive day, so it had to be the latter.

“Why can’t I just be in a good mood?” inquired Clint with the poorest excuse for indignation that Yasha had ever seen.

Sam snorted. “Because your name is Clint Barton, and you shouldn’t be happy to greet the world for at least another three hours.”

Clint opened his mouth, glanced at the clock, and closed it again. “Okay, fair,” he grumbled begrudgingly before perking right back up. “So anyway, I was thinking—“

 _Uh-oh_ was apparently exactly the same in English and Russian.

“Oh, go fuck yourselves, assholes.” Clint flipped them the bird and continued, “There’s, like, two weeks left till we leave for break.”

“Yes,” confirmed Sam suspiciously.

“Aaaaaaand we’ve got a Quidditch match, like, a month after we get back.”

“Oh, _hell_ no, man,” Sam immediately refused, shaking his head emphatically. “Hell no. You are _not_ getting me out there freezing my balls off on a broom when it’s not even in the double digits outside. You can hang that shit up.”

Clint threw his arms in the air. “Well, when _else_ are we going to practice? Don’t be such a baby, dude.”

“I’m not—call me crazy for wanting to avoid being surgically removed from my broom.”

<I’m with Sam on this one,> agreed Yasha, just slightly guilty when Clint’s face fell.

“Oh, not you too!”

<Seriously, it’s fucking _cold_. We can worry about practicing when we get back, > he argued only for Clint to roll his eyes.

“It’ll be fucking January, Yasha. It’s still not gonna be beach weather.”

<We’ll use Heat Charms.>

“We can use Heat Charms tomorrow!”

Sam shook his head. “I’m gonna be too busy working on a paper for Ancient Runes to worry about Quidditch on top of it. I thought you said we weren’t having another practice until we got back anyway.”

“Well, that’s before I found out we’re playing Ravenclaw next, and they’ve got some badass Chasers, man.”

<So do we,> Yasha observed as they heard the familiar sounds of owls arriving with the post.

“Yeah,” admitted Clint dismissively, “but our badass Chasers haven’t practiced in almost three weeks!”

“Hey, that was _your_ decision,” Sam reminded him.

“Well, we had some stupid project to do for Divina—holy fuck, Yasha, what the hell?”

Admittedly, Yasha couldn’t help but think the exact same thing as an _enormous_ box was dropped in front of him by the four owls that had been struggling to carry it. They eyed him with disapproval before taking off back up towards the rafters, leaving Yasha and the others staring at the box in obvious surprise.

<Did…you order something?> inquired Jarvis curiously, leaning over to get a closer look.

Yasha shook his head. There was no return address on the box anywhere, which made him vaguely uncomfortable. It _could_ be from Tatiana, although he wasn’t quite sure why she’d be sending him anything. He hadn’t planned on writing to her about the whole holiday thing until that weekend, so if this _was_ from her, it was pretty out of the blue. He didn’t really know of anyone else outside the school that would send him anything, either.

“May as well open it, I guess,” mused Sam, toying with the twine tied around the box to keep it closed. “If it’s for someone else, you can always pass it on.”

<True,> Yasha agreed, untying the string and ripping the paper only enough to get the lid open just as Steve came running up to them from where he’d been sitting with Peggy at the Slytherin table. He was clutching that morning’s _Daily Prophet_.

“We’ve got a problem,” he blurted out, staring right at Yasha.

 _Of course. Because that’s the only thing you ever get from the_ Daily Prophet _is problems._

Frowning, Yasha started to ask what he was talking about when his hand was knocked off the box as the lid flew open of its own accord. A huge, old-fashioned camera burst out, hovered in the air, and started snapping photo after photo of him, the enormous flashbulb blinding.

Sam, Clint, and Jarvis immediately jumped to their feet and tried to grab the camera, but it kept dancing out of their reach to get more pictures. Then, because this couldn’t possibly get any _weirder_ , dozens of owls dive-bombed their table with an impossible number of letters, dropping them right on top of the open box. Some of them were normal parchment letters—others were obviously Howlers.

“Man, what the hell is going on?!” shouted Clint, hopping up and down almost comically trying to get his hands on that camera while Sam pulled all the flammable objects away from the now smoking Howlers.

Yasha looked back at Steve, whose eyes were wide with…fear?

There was no time to ask what _problem_ he’d been about to disclose: the Howlers all started screeching out in different voices, soaring up into the air and careening right at his face.

“JAMES, THIS IS CHRISTINE EVERHART FROM THE _DAILY PROPH_ —“

“—JUST ONE COMMENT, JAMES—“

“WRITE US BACK— _THE QUIBBLER_ WANTS THE TRUTH ABO—“

“—WERE YOU, JAMES? WHAT’S THE MINISTRY HI—“

“—UT THIS CONSPIRACY!”

“— _ET_ , JUST INQUIRING AF—“

“—OSSIBLE TO LOCATE—“

“—F THE FORGERY OF YOUR DEATH CERTIFI—“

“—PECTING YOUR OWL, JAMES—“

“—SPONSE TO THE ACCU—“

“—JAMES—“

“—JAMES—“

“—JAMES—“

Unable to breathe, Yasha stumbled backward to escape the screaming—the questions—the _fucking never-ending questions_! Someone caught his arm as he tripped, and he glanced up to see Steve pulling him back to put himself between Yasha and the Howlers and the camera and the _eyes_ —and Yasha snatched the _Daily Prophet_ out of his hands only to feel like the floor vanished from beneath his feet—

> THE LAST BARNES – FORMER UNDERSECRETARY’S SON DISCOVERED TO BE ALIVE AND WELL AT HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY


	11. Reclamation

> _Following the tragic death of former Undersecretary Barnes and her family this summer, everyone thought that the world had seen the end of the Barnes clan. According to an anonymous source, however, it appears that there is one last Barnes standing: James, the former Undersecretary’s now sixteen-year-old son._
> 
> _It was believed that James perished in the same event that killed his parents and younger sister, Rebecca, but it has been discovered that James is currently attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a sixth year student. The_ Prophet _received this tip over a week ago but refused to run the story until we found confirmation—which we have._
> 
> _During the removal of the Barnes family from the public arena due to attempts to injure and assassinate Winifred Barnes as well as other members of her family, James was in the middle of his third year at Hogwarts. He did not return to complete the term following the winter holidays. It was assumed that he remained with his family in their Romania safe house. Instead, just one month following James’s departure from Hogwarts, a student by the name of Yasha Smirnov was enrolled at Durmstrang Institute as a third year._
> 
> _A series of admittedly minor inconsistencies in Smirnov’s history indicate that all was not as it seemed when he started at Durmstrang. On his enrollment records, which have been generously provided to the Ministry given Minister Pierce’s previous position as headmaster of the school when Smirnov was enrolled, his parents are listed as deceased. His legal guardians—and documented aunt and uncle—Tatiana and Mikhail Petrov of the Russian Ministry of Magic, were shown to have custody of Smirnov at the time of his entrance into Durmstrang. Everything appeared to be in order: Anya Smirnova, Yasha’s mother, was Mrs. Petrova’s sister._
> 
> _However, based on further inquiry, Mrs. Smirnova and her husband were killed in 1996 and had no documented children. In fact, according to records obtained from St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Mrs. Smirnova was diagnosed with a condition that would preclude her from being able to have children at all in 1992._
> 
> _Unnamed sources inside the Ministry of Magic have confirmed that the Barneses and the Petrovs were neighbors in London and remained good friends after the Petrovs relocated to Russia._
> 
> _Confronted with this information, a high-ranking official at the Ministry had this to say regarding the situation:_
> 
> _“When the Barnes family went into hiding, James was in the middle of his education. While homeschooling was possible, it was hardly ideal. It was the decision of Winifred and her husband to see to it he received the education he deserved—at Durmstrang, to protect his identity.”_
> 
> _After the tragic events leading up to the death of the Barnes family, the Ministry believed that the four bodies in the safe house were those of the entire family; school was not in session, which means Yasha—or James—should have been in Romania. Everyone missed the fact that one Yasha Smirnov was transferred from Durmstrang to Hogwarts with the closure of the former school._
> 
> _James has been contacted for comment, but one thing is already certain: whoever the fourth person in the house was, it wasn’t a member of the family. Janet van Dyne, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, stated early this morning that the body of the individual believed to have been James Barnes will be exhumed and the case reopened to determine what details were missed in the preliminary investigation. Unfortunately, the wizards convicted of the murder, Frank Castle and Wilson Fisk, died in Azkaban earlier this week and will be unable to provide further evidence._
> 
> _Whatever may happen, the_ Prophet _will continue reporting on the investigation as it continues._

Fury took a deep breath as he finished reading the article aloud, tossing the _Prophet_ carelessly onto his desk and fixing Yasha with a stern gaze. They were sitting in his office, Professor May standing a few feet away by the door while Yasha stared down at his feet.

The professors had been quick to stop the commotion in the Great Hall—but not quick enough to keep everyone from hearing what was happening. The Howlers had announced his name loud enough for the residents of Hogsmeade to hear it before Professor Fury set them all on fire, the envelopes sputtering into silence as they drifted down to the floor in a pile of ash. The camera had suffered a similar fate, although Professor Pym had deduced that the pictures would have been developed through a coinciding camera wherever it had been sent from and, therefore, could be anywhere. By the time the Great Hall had fallen silent, everyone’s eyes were watching Yasha as he’d stood there trembling next to Steve, who’d just been trying to warn him.

Everything after that was a blur. Yasha only vaguely recalled Fury announcing that it was time for everyone to get to class—and no one moving—before he and half a dozen other teachers swept Yasha between them and carted him off. So here they were, with Yasha trying to figure out how he was going to talk his way out of this and Fury probably fuming at having been tricked. After all, even T’Challa’s father had told him their situation.

_But T’Challa wasn’t in danger of getting killed by anyone._

It felt like they had been there an eternity before Fury finally spoke, although Yasha had to admit that it wasn’t to say what he’d expected.

“Is this true?” inquired Fury, his voice much softer than Yasha had ever heard it.

It wasn’t an accusation; it sounded like he would genuinely believe whatever Yasha told him. Part of him wanted to lie, wanted to say that it was some really strange story and he had no idea why someone would think any of that could really happen outside the movies.

“Yes,” he whispered instead, closing his eyes in preparation to weather the storm.

There wasn’t one. He heard Fury exhale slowly and—was he laughing?

“You know, I’ve gotta hand it to you,” he chuckled dryly. “It’s not often someone can pull one over on me.”

Blinking his eyes open in surprise, Yasha risked a glimpse to see Fury actually appeared to be amused by the situation. There was a certain darkness to his gaze that was inconsistent with the tone of his voice, yet he wasn’t actively berating Yasha yet. That, at least, had to be a good sign.

“I’m sorry,” Yasha apologized, wanting to be proactive in case he was wrong. “I didn’t—“

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, son,” interrupted Fury, waving a hand dismissively. “I get why you did what you did. Probably would have done the same thing if I were you.”

Yasha shrugged a shoulder in acknowledgement before muttering, “I have no idea how they found out.”

“Did anyone know before this?”

“Just my…my guardians. And Steve,” he added as an afterthought. “I told Steve a couple of weeks ago, but he wouldn’t tell anyone—I know it.”

Fury actually _snorted_. “Trust me, I don’t doubt it. Rogers is a good kid. He wouldn’t do that to anyone, especially not a friend.”

That eased a little of the weight from his shoulders, and Yasha was able to breathe a small sigh of relief. It hadn’t even been a matter of asking: he _knew_ Steve wouldn’t tell. Hell, Steve was the one who was trying to get to him before everything exploded at breakfast. Unfortunately, that certainty did little to help the situation. The question still remained: _how the fuck did they find out?_

Seeming to sense the direction his thoughts had gone, Fury sighed and shook his head, his expression turning more somber. “Now that the cat’s out of the bag, I think we need to figure out how things are going to change around here.”

 _Change_?

“W-what do you mean?” stammered Yasha warily.

“I _mean_ , someone just drew a target on your back in bright red paint, Barnes. The world knows you’re alive now, which means we’re going to want to look into giving you some extra protection.”

Yasha sighed a little—he wasn’t sure what he’d been anticipating, but it wasn’t nearly as benign as that.

“Is that really necessary, sir?” he inquired quietly. “It’s not like I know anything anyone else doesn’t. I wasn’t even there when th-they…when it happened.”

Fury’s mouth turned down a bit in something like sympathy as he replied, “That may be. What also may be is that someone doesn’t care _what_ you know and might want to finish the job so you don’t follow in your mother’s footsteps.”

“I hate politics, so there’s no danger of that,” murmured Yasha. The words were nearly inaudible, but Fury still heard them.

“Well, you know that and I know that, but whoever blew your cover? And whoever they blew it _to_? They don’t really know that. Unless you’d like to go ahead and give a comment to one of your adoring fans who sent you those Howlers today,” offered Fury sardonically.

Yasha snorted humorlessly. “Not really.”

“Good choice,” approved Fury. “Now, you’ll be safe enough inside the castle, but I want you taking a few precautions just in case. Unless you’re in your dormitory or the common room, I want you to make sure you’re with at least one other student at all times. If you go out onto the grounds, take two. I’ll see to it that Professor Phillips attends any Hufflepuff Quidditch practices you have; just make sure Mr. Barton gives him advance notice. If he’s not able to, one of the other teachers will attend. What are your plans for the winter holidays?”

The last bit threw him off after all the orders, so Yasha stuttered for a second before he managed, “I h-haven’t figured that out yet?”

Fury nodded. “That’s fine. Let me know when you’ve made concrete plans. If you’re leaving the castle, I’ll get approval for a Portkey or an escort to get you where you need to go. Otherwise, there will be plenty of professors here with you should you decide to stay."

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Unless you’ve got any questions, Professor May will escort you back to your common room.”

Blinking, Yasha slowly pointed out, “But…I have class? Sir?”

Fury’s lip twitched nearly imperceptibly as he settled back in his chair and drawled, “I think you’ve had enough excitement for one day. You can make up what you miss over the weekend.”

If there was ever a moment when Yasha thought he might want to hug his headmaster (which, heretofore, had been _never_ ), that was it.

 

***

 

Yasha stood under the showerhead for a lot longer than he normally would have, head bowed as the hot water flowed over his bare skin. It was almost scalding, but he could hardly feel it. Between the events of that morning and the conversation he’d had with Fury, he was exhausted in spite of the nap he’d taken earlier in the day. This wasn’t the type of fatigue that could be cured with a few hours of rest, however. It was the bone-weary kind that made you feel like you could sleep for a year and still ask for more. He hadn’t been able to, of course, not with Winter poking her nose in his face around lunchtime. After that, it hadn’t been very appealing to stay in bed with the nervous energy running through him and he decided to see if a shower would somehow sluice off his stress the way it did everything else.

He hadn’t seen anyone yet, none of his friends—old or new—but it was only a matter of time. They had one afternoon class today, which meant they’d be finishing early and he’d have to talk to them. Hiding in his dormitory wouldn’t work when three of the people who would undoubtedly be wanting answers would be able to corner him there. Now he couldn’t even escape without using the buddy system either, so he was stuck in whatever awkward position found him.

How was he supposed to tell them? Talking to Steve was one thing; they’d been brothers since they were born. Of course he was going to understand and accept Yasha automatically, almost without question. The others, though… How could he tell them he’d spent all these months among them and didn’t say a word? How could he look Nat or Jarvis or the twins or Skye in the eye and tell them he’d never _actually_ been who he said he was for the last three years?

Yasha felt his heart beating a faster rhythm in his chest and forced those thoughts out of his mind, tilting his head back so the water ran down his face. He could deal with all that when the time came. For now, there was another matter that needed tending to.

The hot water never ran out at Hogwarts, so Yasha waited until his skin was so pruney that it actually _hurt_ before shutting down the faucet and stepping out of the stall. He plucked a fresh, warm towel from the rack and dried off, wrapping it around his waist as he approached the sink where he’d left his razor. He didn’t tend to grow much facial hair, but he hadn’t shaved in long enough that there was a slight prickle to his skin when he ran his fingertips over it, so he wiped the steam from the mirror and gave his face a quick once over.

Setting the razor aside when his face was smooth once again, Yasha picked up his wand where it had been sitting with his clothes on the counter beside the sink. He swallowed hard, turning to stare back at his reflection. It hadn’t occurred to him just how _tired_ he looked despite his near-constant weariness. There were shadows under his eyes from sleepless or nightmare-ridden nights, and the whites were stained pink with the tiny red veins that spiraled out from his brown irises. Even when it was clean, his hair hung lank and brittle in his face. His pale skin was even paler than it was supposed to be.

Yasha Smirnov looked worn out. Perhaps it was time to finally let him have the rest he’d earned.

“ _Finite,_ ” he whispered after bringing his wand up to touch his chin.

Like someone dipping their finger into a pond, the effects rippled out from the tip of his nose. His skin, while still pale, began to darken to its natural olive tone. The angle of his jaw became slightly less defined while his eyes grew more so, the brown in his irises bleeding away and leaving the same grey as his mother’s in their wake. His hair shrank away from his face until it was short enough that it didn’t even touch his temples anymore. By the time the transformation was complete, there was someone else staring out of the mirror at him like an old friend ready to be welcomed home.

Bucky Barnes slipped into his jeans and a hoodie, stowing his wand in the front pocket and taking one last look at his reflection before exiting the bathroom.

When he got back to the dormitory, Bucky realized he must have been in the shower longer than he’d thought when he saw Jarvis sitting on his bed with his back to the door. He didn’t say anything, but Bucky knew that Jarvis was aware of his presence. Very slowly, he closed the door behind him and made his way over to his own bed, where Winter took one look at him before absolutely _losing her shit_. She meowed excitedly, hopping up into his lap as he perched on the edge of his bed and rubbing her face against his cheek. Smiling, Bucky nuzzled her right back with his nose, letting her have a minute to get reacquainted with his real face. It had, after all, been a very long time since she’d seen it.

Winter eventually calmed down enough not to obstruct his view of Jarvis, but she sank her claws possessively into his sweatshirt and stuck her head up under his jaw, making it very clear she wouldn’t be removed by anything short of surgery or a nuclear apocalypse—possibly not even then. Bucky didn’t mind that and held her close as he timidly glanced up to see Jarvis watching them with a tiny smile on his face. When he noticed Bucky staring back at him, however, he dropped his eyes to the floor and took a deep breath.

<Your family died,> he stated plainly, his voice just barely loud enough for Bucky to hear it.

_That’s…not exactly where I thought he’d start. But okay._

“Uh…yeah. They did.”

Jarvis looked thrown for a moment to hear him speaking English before it seemed to catch up with him that Bucky would already have been fluent in the language. Bucky offered him an apologetic smile, but Jarvis once again lowered his gaze.

“That’s what changed,” he murmured—in English this time.

Frowning, Bucky scooted closer to the edge of his mattress and asked, “What are you talking about?”

“When you started acting strangely,” clarified Jarvis. “When you stopped talking to us. It was because your family died and…we had no idea.”

Bucky grimaced, finally catching on to his train of thought. “That’s not your fault, Jarvis.”

Shaking his head, Jarvis countered, “We should have been there for you.”

“You _were_ ,” argued Bucky, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. “As much as you could be.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

Bucky had seen Jarvis endure a number of trials, from dealing with Rumlow to coming to a new school to putting up with his bullshit over the past few months, but he’d _never_ seen him look so defeated before. Adjusting his grip on Winter, Bucky stood up and moved to sit beside Jarvis on his bed, squeezing his shoulder firmly.

“You did everything you could,” he assured him. “That was _more_ than enough.”

Jarvis peeked at him askance but smiled a little nevertheless, gripping the hand on his shoulder in gratitude. They sat there for a while, neither speaking, until Bucky glanced at the clock to see that dinner had already long since begun.

“Don’t tell me you’re _actually_ hungry?” teased Jarvis gently when Bucky mentioned it, the latter rolling his eyes.

“Not really,” he admitted, trying and failing to dislodge Winter from her perch and deciding to take her with him instead. “But I figure I can face the music _now_ or I can face it _later_ when I’m trying to go to bed, and I know which one I’d rather not do.”

“You are a wise man, Ya—uh, _James_ ,” Jarvis corrected himself after a moment’s pause.

“How about just Bucky?” At Jarvis’s frown, he elucidated, “It’s my nickname.”

Jarvis raised an eyebrow in curiosity as they walked out to the common room but, oddly enough, didn’t ask. “All right then. Bucky it is.”

By the time they made it to the Great Hall, the room was full of students who were already halfway done with their meals. Bucky paused outside the doors, swallowing hard and pulling in a deep breath while Jarvis kindly waited for him to collect himself in silence. It suddenly hit him that somewhere in the Great Hall, there was possibly someone who had figured out who he was and sold it to the _Prophet_. Perhaps it wasn’t and somebody else in the world happened to get lucky, but Bucky doubted it. Still, he couldn’t let that keep him from living—Tatiana’s words from the start of term echoed in his ears and seemed to dissolve the glue that had stuck his feet to the ground. Bucky shot a strained smile at Jarvis in gratitude for his patience and led the way into the Great Hall with as much dignity as he could muster.

Eyes were on him almost immediately, the younger students hardly sparing him a glance while the older ones gaped in recognition. He didn’t make eye contact, too busy scanning the tables until he saw Nat, Wanda, Pietro, and Skye grouped together at the end of the Slytherin table and made a beeline for them.

None of them recognized him at first. Then they noticed Jarvis standing over his shoulder and Winter in his arms. Skye’s jaw practically dislocated as she squinted up at him, trying to find the features she _did_ recognize amongst the ones she didn’t. The twins wore similar expressions of surprise while Nat just stared at him the way she always did, appearing utterly unruffled by the turn of events. Bucky, for his part, had a hard enough time managing a sheepish smile as he took a seat beside her, Jarvis keeping close to his other side.

“Hi,” he greeted softly after clearing the hesitation out of his throat.

“Holy shit, you speak English?!” Skye threw half of her roll at him and glared. “You asshole—I learned _Russian_ just to talk to you. Do you know how much I fucking _hate_ Russian?”

“I think I’m getting the idea,” chuckled Bucky in spite of his nerves.

Wanda, who had been scrutinizing his appearance the whole time, turned back to her food with a casual, “I like your hair, by the way. Very dashing.”

“He’s a regular Prince Charming over here,” muttered Skye, stabbing one of her roasted potatoes with particular viciousness. He would probably have to pay her back for the whole _I Don’t Speak English_ thing—Christmas was coming.

“Well,” began Nat, a wicked little gleam in her eye, “at least he’ll stop stealing all my hair ties from now on.”

“That happened _one_ time.”

“It was at least four times.”

“Bullshit.”

Nat flipped him the bird, and he laughed more freely than he’d thought possible. All of his fears about their reactions had come to naught; they were the same as they always had been, although there was still the niggling guilt in his chest that refused to let him off the hook that easy.

Sighing, Bucky distractedly scratched Winter behind the ears and uttered, “Listen, guys… I’m really so—“

“Don’t apologize, we get it,” interrupted Pietro dismissively through a mouthful of chocolate trifle. “I’m just a little embarrassed we didn’t see that coming.”

“I don’t think _anyone_ could have seen that coming,” consoled Wanda.

Nat, of course, just shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly.

Raising an eyebrow, Bucky couldn’t help asking, “Did you…?”

“I had a feeling there was something you weren’t telling us about your family,” she explained, primly chewing a carrot and swallowing before continuing. “Plus, you _totally_ knew Steve and Sam and the idiot. I just hadn’t worked out how yet.”

There was a tiny note of disappointment in her voice that made Bucky laugh. _That’s Nat for you._

“Hey, by the way,” cut in Skye, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Speaking of… We’re really sorry about your family. We had no idea…”

The twins nodded in agreement, and even Nat bumped their shoulders together with as sympathetic a look as she could manage on her face. Bucky tried to smile, knowing it fell a little flat, and nodded.

“Thanks. And really, I _am_ sorry…”

Nat sighed and shook her head in exasperation. “I’ve told you before, Yasha,” she insisted with a reassuring smile, “we’ve all got our secrets.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Frowning, Bucky turned to see Clint approaching the table with his plate; Sam, Steve, Peggy, and T’Challa were right on his heels. Outside of their study sessions, Bucky’s two groups of friends didn’t really spend any time together, which was why he couldn’t help feeling surprised as they settled in at the Slytherin table like they belonged there.

Clint hardly gave him two seconds before he was on the offensive. “You were in our dorm this _whole time_ , and you _seriously_ didn’t tell us?”

“Would you have believed me?” shot back Bucky with raised eyebrows. He didn’t give Clint a chance to retort. “Anyway, it wasn’t something I could just _tell_ —“

“He knows that,” cut in Sam, rolling his eyes. “Steve filled us in while you were with Fury.”

When Bucky turned his eyes on Steve, the tips of his ears were pink and he shrugged abashedly. “I mean, it was all in the _Prophet_ anyway? So, I guess I figured it really didn’t matter anymore.”

To be honest, Bucky wasn’t put out so much as relieved. At least Steve giving them the breakdown meant he wouldn’t have to do it himself.

“It’s fine,” Bucky hastened to reassure him before shooting the others an apologetic smile. T’Challa waved him off before he could get the words out, though.

“You don’t need to worry. Our feelings aren’t hurt.” The last bit was somewhat pointed as he glanced at Clint, who flipped him off good-naturedly.

“Shit, I’m just teasing. Can nobody take a joke around here?”

That got them started on what _exactly_ constituted a joke, Steve berating him while Nat insisted that he had no sense of humor whatsoever. It was surreal—sitting there, watching both groups of his friends chatting as if they’d known each other forever. Somehow the two halves of his life had come together and made… _this._ No one was angry with him; they weren’t hurt that he’d lied. Everything had, impossibly, somehow worked out all right so far.

In spite of how they’d gotten to this point, Bucky was able to sigh in contentment. For once, life had dealt him a pretty good hand.

 

***

 

Life also decided to slap him in the face by taking his good hand and throwing in a wild card for shits and giggles.

Fury had informed him that they would be screening his mail for the foreseeable future to ensure that he didn’t get anything potentially dangerous or requests for interviews from the various news outlets still hounding him for comments over a week after the story broke, and he’d been true to his word. Aside from Tatiana, he hadn’t gotten anything in the mail that he wasn’t expecting, not that her letter was altogether comforting. Not only had she and Mikhail been called in to give evidence to the Ministry regarding the plan for Bucky to go to Durmstrang and accounting for his whereabouts when his family was killed, but they’d also been informed that they would need to travel to Siberia to oversee an operation to oust some sort of infestation of acromantulas—where they would be staying until the middle of January.

Bucky personally thought that their assignment had less to do with magical creatures and more to do with the attention they’d brought on the Russian Ministry by getting involved with his parents—you didn’t get exiled to Siberia for nothing, after all—but he decided not to mention that to them.

Tatiana had asked if he had other plans for where he could stay over the holidays, since apparently she _had_ been assuming he would return to Moscow to spend Christmas with them, to which he’d replied that he would figure something out and not to worry. It had been his intention to just stay at Hogwarts, where at least he would have the professors if he needed anyone but otherwise stood a chance of getting some peace and quiet. His friends just had so many _questions_ about things: they wanted to know every tiny detail of what had happened while he was gone, and sometimes he just _didn’t_ feel like talking. He owed them the answers, he knew that, but he’d finally reached the point after a few days where even his friends could see that his nerves were shot. T’Challa had casually suggested that they put the past behind them and focus on the future, for which Bucky couldn’t have been more grateful if he tried.

So he’d resigned himself to spending Christmas alone for the first time in his life when Steve—because it _had_ to be fucking _Steve_ —cornered him and said his mother wanted Bucky to come to Brooklyn for the holidays.

“She said she’s not taking no for an answer unless you have a _really_ good excuse, and even then to tell you to suck it up,” Steve had interrupted when he attempted to decline. “She also told me not to _tell_ you that, but whatever.”

So, in an effort not to disappoint Sarah any further than she already would be when she saw him, Bucky reluctantly agreed and Steve sent off an owl to let her know. Fury approved of the plan and would arrange for them to have a Portkey rather than taking the train back to London with the other students just to be safe. That only left one thing for Bucky to worry about.

Unfortunately, it also meant third-wheeling on Steve and Peggy’s date the next Hogsmeade weekend.

“Seriously, guys, we really didn’t have to do this right now,” he grumbled, pulling his hood further forward to hide his face as they strolled down the path from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade. It was the first time he would be leaving the castle after he’d been found out, and the last thing he wanted was to find a herd of reporters just _waiting_ to get a glimpse of him.

Peggy shot him a derisive look from where she was walking on Steve’s other side with their fingers laced together. “James Barnes, come off it. There’s less than a week left before we go home for Christmas and you need something for Sarah. You may as well take all the help you can get.”

“I can do that on my own, though,” argued Bucky. “Wouldn’t you guys rather go sit in Madam Puddifoot’s making goo-goo eyes or something?”

Steve socked him on the shoulder, which hurt far more now than it used to, and reassured him, “That’s probably the _last_ thing we want to do.”

“Last time we went on a double-date with Thor and Jane, I was wondering why they hadn’t turned it into an orgy club,” scoffed Peggy.

Bucky opened his mouth with a wicked grin, but the glare Steve leveled at him was enough to have him snapping his jaw shut. He would log the joke away, however, for a rainy day—or, more appropriately, a day when Peggy wasn’t around. It wasn’t that he was afraid of offending her sensibilities so much as being concerned with the fallout that would come of making such a suggestion.

“So _anyway_ ,” coughed Steve pointedly, “back to what you’re getting my mom for Christmas…”

Groaning, Bucky shook his head while simultaneously glancing around as soon as they entered Hogsmeade proper. “Why can’t it be as easy as when we were kids? Pick her up something random that she’ll love just because we got it for her?”

Steve shrugged. “I’m pretty sure that still works. Last year I got her ten pairs of self-mending socks in gross colors and she went nuts for ‘em.”

“Steven, that’s the equivalent of buying her something from the two-dollar bin at Wal-Mart.”

“Which is precisely what I told him,” agreed Peggy with a fondly exasperated roll of her eyes.

“I’m pretty sure your exact words were, _did you even try at all or did you just pick the cheapest thing in the catalog_ ,” Steve groused, purposely not looking at either of them as they laughed.

“I mean, the lady’s got a point, Steve.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Wait, I thought you _didn’t_ want to stop at Madam Puddifoot’s?”

“If you two are quite through,” scolded Peggy without conviction, tugging on Steve’s arm towards Gladrags. “Perhaps it would be a good idea to start here and see what we find?”

Bucky nodded, hightailing it inside as he spotted a couple of suspiciously eager beavers coming out of the Three Broomsticks, one carrying what clearly looked like a camera. If Steve or Peggy noticed, they were good enough to let him escape without jeering.

They spent an ungodly amount of time looking for a gift, Steve constantly reassuring Bucky that what he picked up would be _just fine, jeez_ when he kept setting things aside and looking for something better. It wasn’t that he was trying to sway Sarah’s opinion of him by finding the best present, but… Well, strike that: he _was_ trying to sway her opinion with the perfect gift. She couldn’t be disappointed with a ruby necklace ensconced in a circle of diamonds the way she could be with him, right?

“Buck, have you even _looked_ at the price on that?”

_…Well, fuck._

Back to the shelf it went, then.

When they eventually trudged into the Three Broomsticks, Steve and Peggy feigning irritation as they sent him to find a table while they went for drinks, he thought he’d done the best he possibly could. They’d visited three stores and gone back to the first two a second time, but at least he’d gotten something he supposed Sarah would like. The idea of Christmas in Brooklyn still filled him with a sense of dread that was entirely incongruous with the way he’d always been excited for it before, and he needed that crutch if he was going to get through the holidays.

If Sarah didn’t like him anymore, he would know soon enough. If nothing else, it would give him some closure.

“Get outta your head.”

A flagon of butterbeer was set down hard on the table in front of him, effectively shaking him out of his thoughts as he glanced up to see Steve and Peggy joining him at their table. Peggy was busying herself with setting out the plate of pastries they had gotten while pointedly ignoring them to provide some semblance of privacy. Bucky smiled timidly and nodded his thanks under Steve’s reproachful glare.

“Just thinking,” he shrugged, taking a sip of his drink.

“I know,” commented Steve. “That’s what I was worried about.”

“ _Please_ , I’m fine.”

The look Steve shot him clearly said _we both know that’s not true_ , but he didn’t call Bucky out on it otherwise. Instead he grabbed a croissant from the middle of the table and tore it open, breathing in the aroma of the warm pastry before taking a bite. Peggy was nibbling at her own, but Bucky just stared at the food. He’d eaten a full breakfast that morning for the first time since the _Prophet_ had run the article about him, and the sight of more food had him feeling uncomfortably full. Resolving to eat again at dinnertime, he ignored the plate and just concentrated on his drink instead.

Steve, however, didn’t appear to be in a mood to let him evade and opened his mouth before Bucky cut him off.

“So, Steve said your family goes to Paris every year, Peggy?”

She glanced between the two of them, obviously aware of the fact that she was in the middle of something she distinctly didn’t _want_ to be, but she smiled and nodded regardless. “My uncle lives there with his wife, so we go to visit them and my cousin Sharon for the holidays.”

“I’m guessing she goes to Beauxbatons?” he inquired curiously.

“She does,” confirmed Peggy. “My parents considered getting me a waiver so we could go together—we’re the same age—but I’m glad they decided not to. Hogwarts is home, and there are a few people I _suppose_ I don’t mind having met here.”

Steve snorted as she poked his arm, and Bucky couldn’t help smiling as he watched him give her hair a gentle tug in response. They were the strangest couple he’d ever seen—they didn’t hang all over each other like some of their classmates or throw their relationship in people’s faces. They couldn’t be found making out in alcoves or behind suits of armor the way Bucky had frequently had the displeasure of running into Thor and his girlfriend Jane. They were easy with one another, with casual shows of affection and an obviously deep understanding of one another.

They looked at each other and Hogwarts and their friends like they were _home_ , and as happy as he was for them, Bucky couldn’t help feeling a little envious. That wasn’t a sensation he could honestly say he’d felt in a long time, even if he’d come close recently.

Bucky was pulled from his musings by Steve’s muttered curse. It didn’t take long to find what had caught his attention: the couple he’d seen earlier had returned, one with a camera and the other with a pad of paper—both staring straight at him.

Sighing, Bucky took a long pull from his flagon while Peggy wrapped the rest of the pastries in a napkin and stood to leave.

_Fuck my life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


	12. Coming Home

> _So I know it’s difficult, Bucky. I know it can make you want to hide under a rock and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. But you just remember that the people who really matter and who love you more than anything know the truth, and there are so many of us out here supporting you. You’ve always been my baby boy in everything but blood, just as Steve is to your mom and dad, and I am so proud of the young man you’re growing into._

Bucky rubbed a hand over his face wearily, setting the letter down on the bed beside him. He wasn’t quite sure how many times he’d read it since Sarah sent it to him over three years ago; the edges were faded and wearing and the parchment floppy from having been unfolded and refolded so often. He hadn’t looked at it in at least six months, but the closer they drew to Christmas, the more frequently he found himself pulling it out just to read back over the important parts despite knowing them by heart.

Now there were only ten minutes left until he would be heading to Brooklyn with Steve, and he was still just as ill-prepared as he had been when Steve first invited him. Everyone else was already gone, the train having left pretty early in the morning to get them back to London a little after noon. His friends had bestowed their gifts on him last night at dinner, and they were sitting unopened in his trunk for the journey to New York. It was an unconscious habit left over from another life to wait until Christmas morning to open presents, so that was what he would do. He’d carefully packed them away with his clothes and Winter’s toys, gently laying Sarah’s present on top so it wouldn’t get crushed by the weight of everything else.

He’d tried to waste the intervening hours in any way he could until he had to leave for Fury’s office, which led to him pulling out the letter and perusing it for the nth time. That, unfortunately, hadn’t helped to speed things up at all. His previous reluctance had all but vanished, leaving an anxious desire to just get this over with in its stead.

“What do you think, Win?” he murmured, stroking Winter’s fur. She’d been by his side all morning, alternating between snuggling into his leg and rolling around on the bed with her stuffed monkey since the rest of her toys had been packed away. “Ready to go?”

She purred in response, holding onto her toy as Bucky plucked her off the bed and settled her comfortably in his arms. Casting one last glance around the dormitory to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, he grabbed the end of his trunk and rolled it out through the common room.

By the time he made it to Fury’s office, he was actually a few minutes late. Steve was already there waiting, his own trunk sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. Bucky moved to place his alongside it; he hadn’t bothered bringing Winter’s cage since she wouldn’t be using it anyway. All of their things would be sent along behind them, so at least they didn’t have to worry about holding onto everything.

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Barnes,” greeted Fury in his usual dryly menacing fashion.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair and smiled sheepishly, ignoring the concerned glance Steve sent his way. “Sorry…”

“Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

Fury stood up from where he’d been sitting behind his desk and gestured to a decorative dish on top of a stack of papers. There were kittens running along the outside edge.

Catching his half confused, half entertained expression, Fury sighed, “You can thank Professor Stark for that.”

_Like father, like son._

“This will take you straight to the address you provided,” instructed Fury, nodding to Steve. He took out his wand, gave it a wave, and Bucky glanced back to see that their luggage had vanished. “Your things will be waiting for you. If you need help arranging transportation back here, just send an owl to the school and we’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said with a grateful nod. “For everything.”

Fury simply nodded curtly, holding out a hand toward the plate.

As soon as Steve had a firm grip on one side, he grinned and commented, “It really is your color, Buck.”

“Y’know what, Rogers?”

He wasn’t able to get out more than that (and wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to in front of Fury) before the Portkey activated and he felt like he was being thrown through the air with nothing but a rope around his waist to ground him. Winter’s head was buried in his neck—she’d always _hated_ traveling by Portkey—but Steve was grinning like a maniac when their feet hit solid ground again and the world reshaped itself.

“I love those things,” gushed Steve, laughing at Bucky’s expression of disbelief. It really shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise: now that he wasn’t at risk of getting motion sickness so much anymore, _of course_ Steve would love it.

“You’re so weird,” grumbled Bucky regardless, glancing around them nervously to see that they were standing on the sidewalk outside the row of brownstones where Steve had always lived. The familiar house towered above them, Christmas lights happily trailing along the gutters with little wreaths in every window. It appeared that Sarah still mounted the sleigh and reindeer on the roof the same as she had every year for as long as he could remember. (The neighbors all complimented her on it and asked incredulously how she managed to get up there—they laughed when she jokingly replied, “With magic, of course!”)

As always, the house was obviously well cared for and in great shape. The brownstone next to it, however, was a different story. Bucky glanced over to the house he grew up in to see with a pang of sadness that it wasn’t nearly as nice as it had been the last time he’d seen it. The shutters were faded and in desperate need of repair; someone had obviously neglected to take care of the blinds, which were hanging helter-skelter in the windows with each panel bent in different directions. Garbage bags were sitting out on the front stoop instead of in a garbage can in the alley where everyone else on the street tried to contain their trash. Whoever lived there just…didn’t care.

 _Mom and Dad would be disgusted,_ he mused silently, swallowing down his grief. He turned back to see Steve watching him with a mournful look, but his face perked up a bit when Bucky pulled himself out of his own thoughts and tried desperately to put the past behind him.

Which lasted all of five seconds until Steve hopped up the steps and pulled out his keys to unlock the door.

Mewing, Winter poked her nose against his cheek; it almost didn’t feel cold from how frigid the Brooklyn air was.

“Yeah, we can do this,” he whispered quietly enough that Steve didn’t hear, kissing the top of her head and tentatively following Steve into the house.

Here, at least, time didn’t seem to have touched anything. It was all just as unchanged as the outside had been when they stepped through the door. There were a few more pictures on the walls that Bucky didn’t recognize, but everything else was the same—the furniture in the living room, the dining room where he could just barely see it from the front door, the smell of baked goods wafting through the house. It was bright and airy, the walls painted a light shade of blue to make it seem like the sun was out even when it wasn’t. The small table in the entryway was still there, still covered in framed photos: Steve and his mom, his dad in his uniform holding a little blond baby, his parents’ wedding day.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky reached out a trembling hand to carefully pick up a black frame towards the center, smiling tremulously as he stared down at his family waving up at him. That was the last Christmas they’d all spent together in London during their second year at Hogwarts; Sarah and Bucky’s parents were sitting on the couch, Becca on their mother’s lap, while Steve and Bucky played with Winter on the floor. They were all so…happy. They smiled like nothing was wrong, like the whole world wasn’t about to come crashing down around their ears. The phantoms in the photo would never have to bear the burden of knowing what would someday happen to them, frozen in time when things were _good_.

_Lucky them._

With a sniffle, Bucky replaced the picture where it belonged and inconspicuously wiped his face on Winter’s fur before turning back around.

Steve was waiting, not watching him this time. He hadn’t called for his mother, and Bucky realized that it was to give him time to adjust before sending him into _that_ tailspin on top of everything else. When he seemed to sense Bucky’s eyes on him, he glanced up and Bucky smiled his thanks—it was the best he could do at the moment.

“Here,” murmured Steve, reaching out for Winter. “I should probably take her.”

With a frown, Bucky reluctantly relinquished his cat and slowly inquired, “…Why?”

“’Cause once my mom sees you, it’s gonna be WWE: World Peace Edition,” he explained as if it was supposed to be obvious. Bucky only managed to snort in response before he raised his voice to yell, “Mom, we’re here!”

Footsteps immediately pounded against the floor above them, echoing through the house as Sarah Rogers appeared at the top of the stairs, staring at Bucky with her mouth hanging open.

It was like someone had taken a hot poker and shoved it between his ribs. Unlike Steve, who had undergone a complete overhaul in the appearance department, Sarah remained exactly as she’d been in his memories. There were a couple of laughter lines in the corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there before, and he could see the barest hint of a few grey hairs hidden amongst the blonde ones, but her face was still kind. Her nails were still painted bright colors because she’d always said life was too short not to go a little wild sometimes, and she was wearing jeans with a red and green striped sweater Bucky remembered Steve getting her for Christmas in their second year.

And she still had arms that gave the best hugs, he discovered when he found himself sheathed in them.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed, holding him tightly to her as if he might dissolve if she let go. She stood on her tiptoes to throw one arm around his shoulders (because he was _taller_ than her now, _holy shit_ ) with her free hand on the back of his head, her muscles trembling with the strain of holding on so unyieldingly.

Once he was able to process what was happening, Bucky snaked his arms around her and buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in and smelling _home_. More than Hogwarts, more than Moscow, more than Romania, more than the tiny bit he’d gotten from Steve, more than anything else in the world— _home_. He wasn’t able to hold in his whimper, but at least it was muffled almost to silence in Sarah’s sweater.

Much to his relief, it seemed that Sarah wasn’t quite sure what to do either. She just kept repeating the same words over and over, swaying back and forth and letting him cling onto her like life itself.

Eventually, when _oh, my God_ had been exhausted, she switched to, “You’re here,” and pulled away only far enough to get a look at him. There were tears rolling unhindered down her cheeks, but her eyes were shining with elation as they drank in his face and she laughed a bit hysterically. “Look at you!” she exclaimed, choking the words out past a sob. “You’re so _big_ and so _beautiful_ —all grown up, and you’re ali—you’re _alive_ …”

She pulled him back in again, and he went willingly so she wouldn’t be able to see when his own tears began to fall. Everything had changed, but Sarah Rogers was exactly the same.

“I missed you,” he breathed into her neck. Sarah squeezed him even tighter.

“Oh, sweetheart, we missed you so much,” she replied just as softly, stroking the hair at the back of his head. After a while, she laughed again and exclaimed, “And Winter! Look at that gorgeous lady.”

Smiling unsteadily, Bucky pulled back a bit to glance over his shoulder at where Winter was snuggled up with her monkey in Steve’s arms, watching Sarah in her usual _Human, Please Give Me Pets_ way. And because Sarah wasn’t one to ignore the needs of others, she kissed Bucky’s cheek—and rubbed off the lipstick mark she left behind—before reaching out and plucking up his cat.

Winter, the little brat, meowed happily and burrowed into Sarah’s arms like she belonged there. Bucky didn’t even blame her for it.

“Hi, Ma,” greeted Steve with mock excitement. “Good to see you too!”

Scoffing, Sarah freed an arm to pull her son into a hug, laughing wetly. “I’m sorry, honey—it _is_ good to see you.”

“Eurgh, Mom!”

Bucky couldn’t help chuckling as Sarah pressed a wet kiss to Steve’s cheek, making sure to smear her lipstick in the way he always _hated_. By the time he managed to extricate himself, his face was almost as red as the mark she’d left while he tried to wipe away the evidence.

“That’s what you get, Steven Grant Rogers—letting me find out what happened via the _Daily Prophet_ of all things.” She shuddered teasingly, wiping a hand over her face to clear away the tears and miraculously managing not to mess up her makeup in the process. “Now come on. I’ve been baking all morning waiting for you two, and I need someone to eat this stuff before I get fat off it. Leave your things, you can take them upstairs later.”

Nodding in a manner that spoke more to the fact that she was fortifying herself rather than confirming a fact, Sarah turned on her heel and made a beeline for the kitchen still carrying Winter.

Bucky breathed in deep and let it out slowly through his mouth. They hadn’t really spoken yet, so there was still time for Sarah to hate him for being someone other than the boy he’d been when she’d last seen him, but he was beginning to feel like that might not happen. She hadn’t _looked_ at him like he was that same person—she’d looked at him like he was _special_ , a _gift_ , not a ghost.

A sturdy hand on his shoulder snapped him back to reality, and Steve smiled softly at him before jerking his head toward the kitchen. “Come on, I’m not saving you any if you’re just gonna stand here.”

“Oh, yes you will, Steven.”

Waving a hand in the direction the scolding had come from, Bucky jeered, “Told you she always liked me better.”

“Douchebag.”

“Steven!”

“Coming, Mother,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. It never seemed to matter that Sarah Rogers had the filthiest mouth of all of them; she had a strict _Do As I Say, Not As I Do_ policy with Steve when it came to language.

As instructed, they left their luggage in the living room and followed Sarah to the kitchen, where Bucky gawked at the veritable _ton_ of cookies piled on platters on every countertop. There was a little bit of everything: chocolate chip, sugar, gingerbread, pumpkin, chocolate, _double_ chocolate, and—

At _least_ three dozen peanut butter cookies.

Winter had made herself at home on the counter beside the stove, making short work of a bowl of milk as Sarah stroked her back calmly. When she glanced up to see them in the doorway, she smiled self-deprecatingly but not regretfully.

“So I made enough for you to take back to school with you, too.”

“Ma, you made enough for us to _sell_ at school,” muttered Steve, not that it stopped him from grabbing a gingerbread cookie and downing it in two bites. “You okay, Buck?”

Bucky didn’t answer him. He was too busy staring down at the plate of peanut butter cookies, thinking of every single time he’d found a box or a tin or a plate of them popping up as if by magic to cheer him up when he desperately needed it—or even when he didn’t. He thought of lost Quidditch matches, start-of-term gifts, consolations for vindictive newspaper articles, and birthday presents. He thought of the batch his mom baked to make the move to Romania easier.

And when he burst into uncontrollable tears, Sarah and Steve were there.

 

***

 

It was impossible to get any sleep that night. Sarah had set up the guest room for him, and he was grateful—really, he _was_. It just wasn’t the same, and he spent hours tossing and turning without relief. He’d never slept in the guest room at Steve’s house; from the time they were little right up to their last sleepover during the winter holidays in their second year, he’d always slept in a sleeping bag on the floor in Steve’s room, the little magical stars on his ceiling winking down at them in the dark. They were still there; he’d seen them earlier when he and Steve brought their things up before dinner. What he wouldn’t give to at least have those to stare up at when sleep was evading him.

Eventually, he gave up and gently extricated himself from under the covers to avoid waking Winter; she’d dealt with enough interrupted nights without him adding yet another. The guest room didn’t have a television, so he tiptoed out into the hall, cracking the door in case his cat woke and came looking for him, and crept down the stairs.

Everything was quiet and he hadn’t heard a peep except the house settling in hours, yet he saw the bluish glow of the television as soon as he was in view of the living room. Frowning, he descended the rest of the way down the stairs and peeked around the wall to see the back of Sarah’s head on the couch where she was watching a movie. She’d been a wealth of positivity all night: cheerful, happy, comforting. She’d cooked Bucky’s favorite winter meal—baked macaroni and cheese with chunks of chicken—and tortured Steve with their traditional viewing of _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ , ignoring when Bucky got misty-eyed remembering that it had always been Becca’s favorite holiday movie. (When she got older, Steve had felt comfortable having _The Talk_ about how exploitative it was only for her to shut him down by saying it was really a show of empowerment—that had been a fun year.) When he and Steve had gone upstairs to get ready for bed, she’d given him a bone-crushing hug and kissed his cheek again as if it might be the last time she’d see him. (All things considered, it wouldn’t exactly be unheard of.)

Now, as Bucky came around the corner, he could see how sad she looked when there was no one to keep up the front for. He couldn’t imagine how he would feel to find out that Becca or his dad or his mom had actually been alive all this time without telling him—angry? Sad? Probably a mix of the two, plus a million other things besides.

“Hey,” he croaked, his voice hoarse from trying to sleep.

Starting slightly, Sarah turned to see him standing there and smiled. It was genuine, and he was grateful she didn’t try to plaster on some happy façade for him. He would gladly take a strained smile over a fake one any day.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked quietly. When he shook his head in silence, she held out an arm for him to sit beside her. He accepted the offer and made to lean into her side, but her hand came down on his shoulder and pulled him over to lie across the couch with his head in her lap.

For the first time all day, he was able to breathe easy.

Apparently she’d been watching some Christmas movie on Hallmark, which made Bucky crack a smile. Sarah and Steve both _hated_ those movies, with a few choice exceptions. His mom hadn’t been a fan of them either; he recalled many a year where he’d come over to play with Steve only to hear their mothers making fun of the stereotypical gender roles and clichéd storylines all the way upstairs.

They sat in silence, Sarah petting his hair soothingly while they watched the played out story and (sadly) far more entertaining infomercials. It wasn’t until the movie ended and another one almost identical to it began that Sarah spoke softly, as if afraid to disturb the peace that had settled between them.

“You know what one of my favorite memories is?”

Bucky blinked, frowning at the random choice of conversation topics. “What?”

He heard Sarah chortle as she asked him, “Do you remember when you were six and came down with the flu?”

“Yeah,” he grunted, cringing slightly. That had been an awful year: he’d caught the flu the week of Thanksgiving and was absolutely miserable the whole time. To this day, it was the sickest he’d ever been.

_That’s her favorite memory? Seriously?_

“Your mom and dad were so worried because Becca was just barely a year old and they didn’t want her to catch it, so I offered that you could stay here until you got better. They hated it, especially with Thanksgiving, but they said okay. And I stupidly thought if I put you in my room, I could keep Steve away from you.”

Bucky couldn’t help the breathless chuckle that escaped him. That had been the worst defeat in parental history: Steve had managed to find any excuse to see him, even going so far as to sneak in during the middle of the night just so Bucky wouldn’t be alone while Sarah slept in the guest room.

Humming, Sarah continued, “So, of course, Steve came down with it even worse than _you_ did. It wasn’t worth trying to keep you two apart anymore. The three of us camped out down here with soup and hot chocolate—and a pretty impressive blanket fort, if I don’t say so myself.” She poked his side, making him laugh softly. “And we spent three days just hanging out on the couch, with your head on this knee and Steve’s on the other, watching Disney movies. It was one of the most _miserable_ weeks ever, but also one of the best.”

His smile faded a little at her wistful tone. Bucky turned his head so she couldn’t see his eyes, almost burying his face in her leg. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to say what he knew he _had_ to, and he most certainly couldn’t look her in the face while he did it.

“Sarah…” He cleared his throat, closing his eyes. “I’m not that kid anymore.”

“No,” she sighed heavily, and he could visualize the sad smile that was undoubtedly on her face. “No, you’re not. Neither is Steve.”

“No, I mean—“

“I know what you mean.” She didn’t say anything else, just started running her fingers through his hair again. She used her free hand to rub circles on his upper back until his shoulders relaxed from where they’d been drawn up around his ears. “I could tell you weren’t the same the second I saw you, James Barnes. But that doesn’t change the fact that you _are_ James Barnes, or that I love you just as much now as I did then—same as Steve.”

Swallowing, Bucky argued weakly, “But you don’t even know me.”

Both her hands stopped, and a second later she was leaning over to look him in the eye. Even in the meager glow from the television, her eyes were alight with a determined gleam.

_And she wonders where Steve gets it._

“Of course I do,” she rebutted, not allowing for one ounce of doubt to show through on her features. “I don’t need to know every little thing that happened to you to know who you are—no one does. I know all I need to. You’re someone who was brave enough to step back into Hogwarts after everything that happened, strong enough to resist telling all your friends who you were, kind enough to tell Steve when you saw he was upset. You’re not as different as you think. No, you’re not a little boy anymore, but you haven’t lost what you were before. You’ve carried it with you, and now you’re almost a man and I know _exactly_ who you are: you’re someone your parents would be proud of. And so am I.”

Bucky knew he was getting tears on her jeans, but Sarah didn’t say anything about it as she went back to petting his head gently. Everything she’d said was what he’d hoped and prayed to hear—everything he’d _needed_ to hear—but that niggling doubt just wouldn’t relinquish its hold.

“Why don’t I _feel_ that way?” he whispered, trying to blink away his tears unsuccessfully.

Sighing, Sarah smiled solemnly. “Because you’re still coming to terms with what happened. It’ll get easier with time. Trust me, I know.”

It was obvious she was referring to her husband, Steve’s father, and Bucky couldn’t help inquiring, “How did you do it? How did you just…keep going?”

There was a pause as Sarah seemed to be weighing her words, finding the right way to say what she was thinking. Eventually she settled on, “By realizing the world had changed, and when that happens, none of us can go back. All we can do is our best. And sometimes the best that we can do is to start over.”

There was nothing Bucky could say to that, so he just nodded quietly as tears silently continued to stream over his temple and pool at the side of his nose. After a few minutes, he felt Sarah press a kiss to the top of his head.

“It never stops hurting—you’ll always miss them,” she whispered, quiet and honest. “But it _does_ get easier. It won’t seem like the end of the world. Those memories won’t be so hard to think about anymore, and you’ll be able to smile when you do. They’ll always be with you. Death isn’t the _end_. It’s just the beginning of something different. Don’t you forget that, okay?”

Bucky nodded again, rolling over to wrap his arms around her middle and hang on tight. Sarah stroked his hair, and he eventually fell asleep just like that—heartbroken and healing and safe and _loved_.

 

***

 

“Uh…Buck?”

“Yeah,” he called from where he was brushing his teeth in the hall bathroom. Christmas morning was still exciting, but now that he was older, he was plenty happy to wait until _after_ he’d seen to his daily hygiene for the festivities to begin.

“You got an owl,” Steve replied, appearing behind him in the mirror with an envelope in hand and a bemused frown.

“From Tatiana?”

“From the Minister.”

“What the fuck?” Bucky hurriedly spit out his mouthful of toothpaste and rinsed before taking the envelope from Steve’s hands to see—yes, his name and the Minister’s seal. “What the fuck could that shithead want?”

Steve shrugged, smirking as he suggested, “I mean, I know of one surefire way to figure it out…“

“Okay, can it, Rogers.”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky eyed the envelope distrustfully for another minute before flipping it over, breaking the seal, and pulling out a square card.

> _Mr. Barnes,_
> 
> _It is with great respect that I write to you and hope this message finds you enjoying your holiday. In spite of the festive season of the year, recent events must be taken into consideration and, therefore, your presence is requested at the Ministry of Magic in London for an audience with myself and a few other dignitaries at your discretion before you return to Hogwarts. We would like to take the opportunity to present you with a plaque honoring your mother’s achievements and your entire family’s sacrifice. Please notify me by return owl of a date and time that would be convenient for you so that we may set up an appointment window._
> 
> _Additionally, as you are now your mother’s sole beneficiary, you will be required to speak with the Office of Records (under the Department of Magical Law Enforcement) regarding the reading and execution of her will._
> 
> _I will be anticipating your timely reply._
> 
> _Alexander Pierce_
> 
> _Minister for Magic_

Bucky had to read through the note three times before everything sank in, by which point Steve had grown impatient enough to pluck the card from his hands and skim over it himself.

“A plaque?” he scoffed, shaking his head without even attempting to disguise his revulsion. “He wants you to come to the Ministry for a _plaque_.”

“No,” murmured Bucky, turning back around to rinse off his toothbrush and deposit it in the container by the sink. “He wants me to come to the Ministry to make it look like I agree with his policies.”

Narrowing his eyes and glancing between Bucky and the card, Steve inquired, “How do you know that?”

_So naïve. How cute._

“Because politics, Steve.”

Bucky slipped past him out into the hallway, Steve following behind as they made their way downstairs to the living room where Sarah was seated on the couch with her coffee. He refused to think about that letter right now, even when Steve handed it to his mother for her to huff at in disgust. He refused to let his Christmas be plagued with thoughts of what was in his parents’ will or what nonsense Pierce would have planned for him if he went to that meeting. Right now, he just wanted to focus on the family he had left. He wanted to remember the way they’d honored the Barnes family traditions last night and had a buffet-style meal with all the foods his mom and dad made every year. He wanted to laugh at the fact that they _still_ hadn’t been able to convince Sarah to let them open a present before they went to bed. He wanted to watch their faces when they opened his gifts to them.

He didn’t want Alexander Pierce’s stupid, ugly mug in his head when he was supposed to be enjoying his holidays. After all, even the Minister had hoped he was. He was only doing his patriotic duty by ignoring the fuck out of that card and complying.

“You can do whatever you want about this,” commented Sarah, tossing the card carelessly onto the coffee table, “ _after_ Christmas. Fuck that guy—you’ve got presents to open.”

And boy did he: in spite of the short notice, Sarah had a whole stack of packages there for him just as big as Steve’s. In fact, it was a larger pile than he’d seen since he was thirteen—his parents had already done their shopping before they went into hiding, but after that, it had been tedious trying to get things delivered to the house. They had to go through so many levels of security that by the time they reached their destination, usually whatever it was had been damaged or spells were removed, rendering magical gifts useless. After they’d realized that was the case when Bucky’s fourteenth birthday rolled around, his parents resorted to the old _Quality Over Quantity_ routine.

Needless to say, it was beyond overwhelming to see so many packages in one place, all with his name on them.

Realizing that he might need some time to acclimate himself, which seemed to be more and more the case these days, Steve and Sarah started them off. Steve got the usual haul of candy, clothing, and various odds and ends that he needed, including a new pair of red dragons-hide gloves for him to wear during their Quidditch games. His mom had also gotten him a new sketchbook and art supplies that he’d been running low on, as well as a maintenance kit for his broom. When he opened Bucky’s gift, he burst out laughing and raised the children’s spy kit in the air.

“Seriously, Bucky? What the hell!” he guffawed. Even Sarah was too much in stitches to berate him for his language.

“It just seemed your style,” shrugged Bucky, grinning.

“You’re such a jerk.”

“Well, I guess you’d better look inside, then.”

Frowning, Steve tore open the tape and popped the latch, his jaw dropping when he discovered what Bucky had privately referred to as the Auror Starter Pack: a Sneakoscope, a pocket-sized Foe-Glass, a Probity Probe, and two books on dark magic (one of which was his textbook from Durmstrang, but Steve didn’t need to know that—it looked brand new given that Bucky had never so much as cracked the damn thing).

Stave gazed down at the Dark Detectors, turning the Sneakoscope over in his hand a few times, before looking up at Bucky with an utterly gobsmacked expression. “Buck, this must’ve cost a f—“

“Just say _thank you_ , Stevie,” interjected Bucky dismissively. They didn’t need to get into just how well-off Tatiana and Mikhail were, or how much of an allowance they had been giving him over his summer holidays.

“Thank you, Stevie,” he repeated obediently, getting enough of his equilibrium back to be a sarcastic little shit.

Sarah was similarly taken aback when she opened the package he’d gotten her to see the simple silver ring inside. There was a modestly sized sapphire set in the top, sparkling in the light streaming in from the window.

“You have to rub your finger over the top,” Bucky instructed her, biting his lip and waiting while she did as he said.

As soon as her finger passed over the jewel, it was like a light was shining behind it to project an image into the air: the photograph of her husband holding Steve as a baby. Sarah gasped, unable to tear her eyes away as Joseph Rogers bounced his son up and down in his arms the same way he did in the frame by the front door—then the image changed to one of Sarah and Steve outside their Muggle school on the first day of kindergarten, waving at the camera that Bucky knew his mother had held. Bucky had wanted to get her a ring with a spell that would hold all the pictures she had framed around the house, but those were _obscenely_ expensive, so he’d had to go with the one that could only store two at a time and choose the images he thought she’d like best in one of the few moments he got to himself since arriving.

“Bucky, this is _beautiful_ ,” Sarah breathed once she was able to collect herself, her eyes a little shiny as she attacked him in a hug.

“I’m glad you like it,” he muttered quietly into her shoulder, unable to help the relieved smile that pulled up the corners of his mouth. _She liked it._

“I love it,” she gushed, staring back down at the ring and reactivating the spell to look at the pictures once more.

 _She_ loved _it,_ he corrected silently, preening at a job well done.

“All right,” grunted Steve, reaching out to the last remaining pile of gifts and giving them a shove in Bucky’s direction. “Stop stalling—it’s your turn.”

Bucky waited to make sure Sarah wasn’t watching before he discreetly flipped Steve the bird, but he obediently slipped off the couch to sit on the floor all the same. Winter, who had been rolling around in the discarded wrapping paper excitedly, abandoned it to hop into his lap and watch the proceedings.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” exclaimed Sarah, joining them on the floor to reach behind the tree and pull out a little stocking. There was a cat designed on the front in gold glitter, with Winter’s name emblazoned at the top. “Can’t have anyone going without a present!”

Grinning, Bucky took the stocking and upended it onto the floor. There were a couple of new toys that would help clean her teeth, a stuffed bird that would supposedly fly around the room on its own until caught, and a tiny orange collar with a fancy gold tag on it.

“Figured you could probably use that since you keep losing her,” teased Steve.

Bucky just smiled pleasantly, took hold of Steve’s hand, and fastened the collar firmly around his wrist. Winter had always been a bit of a rebel when it came to collars, somehow managing to slip out of them no matter what kind it was, so he figured the gag gift would make a nice enough bracelet for Steve.

“You could actually give that to Peggy for Valentine’s Day, you know,” he recommended, grinning when Sarah smacked Steve upside the head for his choice utterance.

Still smirking, Bucky worked his way through his own stack of gifts to find a few similar items to what Steve had gotten—clothes (Steve must have given Sarah his sizes), candy, and a little bag of peanut butter cookies (because there weren’t still over a dozen left in the kitchen or anything). She’d gotten him a pair of Quidditch gloves like Steve’s, only his were black instead of red, and a matching pair of goggles to help him see Bludgers more easily in the rain or snow. Steve’s present was a framed sketch of two people who, on closer inspection, Bucky realized were _both_ him: Yasha Smirnov and Bucky Barnes were set back to back, the latter grinning while the former just smirked mildly. Bucky couldn’t help laughing softly, running a hand over the portrait before thanking Steve quietly. Although he wasn’t quite sure that he wanted to constantly be reminded of who he’d been for the last few years and what that entailed, he thought back to what Sarah had told him and figured one day he would be able to appreciate it more.

When he reached the last gift, Sarah put a hand over it before he could open the paper and warned him gently, “You’ll want to be careful with this one.”

“Okay…”

Steve’s face gave nothing away, so he probably didn’t know what it was since he was such a terrible liar. (It was honestly amazing that he hadn’t spilled the beans on Bucky’s identity to their friends the day after he found out.) Cautiously, Bucky tore the paper and slipped out a simple cardboard box like he would expect clothing to be wrapped in.

It wasn’t clothing. Underneath a layer of tissue paper was a humongous photo album filled with pictures of his family, little tabs in the side indicating the year all the way from 1990 when his parents had been married through 2009—the last photos that existed of them all.

“H-how…?” He gaped incredulously at Sarah, who put her arm around his shoulders and squeezed gently.

“Your mom and I usually had duplicates made of all the pictures we took,” she explained, flipping one of the pages to show his parents holding a tiny newborn Becca out for six-year-old Bucky to frown at. “After you guys moved to England, she would send me copies. I think I’ve got just about everything—I made duplicates of all of them for you, so it should all be here.”

Bucky wasn’t sure what to say—if there even _was_ anything to say—so he tenderly placed the book on the sofa and threw his arms around Sarah, whispering words of gratitude over and over. It was perhaps the best gift he could possibly receive, and there was no way to articulate just how important it was to him.

It wasn’t the _best_ Christmas ever, but it was better than he ever could have imagined.

 

***

 

> _Minister,_
> 
> _Thank you for your card. I regret to inform you that I won’t be able to meet with you or the dignitaries you had planned to introduce me to. You can take the plaque commemorating my mother’s achievements and hang it somewhere in the Ministry where people can appreciate it. My mother did many things for the Ministry of Magic and the Wizarding world, but those accomplishments belong to everyone, not me. I don’t need any false proclamations of regret from you or anyone else at the Ministry while you try to pull apart everything my mother worked for with your recent policy decisions. I want nothing to do with you or the destruction you’re trying to do to her legacy._
> 
> _I will be in touch with the Office of Records regarding her will._
> 
> _James Barnes_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to call this chapter _Proof That The_Asset6 Is In Fact Capable Of writing Happiness From Time to Time Despite Everyone Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop._ ;)


	13. Closure

Sarah bought him a suit. It was even tailored.

 _It’s always important to look your best when you feel your worst,_ Bucky reminded himself as he twitched a button on his suit jacket. He was definitely feeling his worst as they exited the lifts on the level that housed the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The bored-looking witch at the desk in the Atrium had given them vague instructions on how to get to the Office of Records and left them to their own devices, but Sarah seemed to know where she was going. Bucky didn’t pay much attention to their surroundings as she led the way through groups of cubicles and down long corridors, paper planes soaring around overhead with interdepartmental memos.

New Year’s had come and gone in a flash, and they would be going back to Hogwarts in just three days. Bucky had been putting off the trip to the Ministry for as long as he could, the idea holding no interest for him whatsoever, until Sarah gently reminded him at dinner the previous night that he couldn’t avoid it forever. So they’d made plans to get it over with today, both Bucky and Steve Side-Along Apparating with Sarah from Brooklyn straight into the Atrium first thing that morning.

They didn’t inform the Minister’s office of their arrival. Bucky hadn’t gotten a return owl after he’d sent his Sarah-approved reply to Pierce the day after Christmas.

“I can honestly say this is one of the most diplomatic yet assertive kiss-offs I’ve ever seen,” she’d mused, handing his letter back with a proud nod. “You’re definitely your mother’s son.”

At least he had the relief of knowing that no one appeared to recognize him or, if they did, they certainly didn’t care. He figured a bunch of Aurors and crime-stoppers had better things to be doing than gawping at the ghost walking through their department like they couldn’t believe their eyes. The only people who even acknowledged them at all were the ones who were hustling down the corridor, bumped into them, and rattled off a harried apology as they continued on their way. Otherwise, they were invisible, and it was a distinctly pleasurable feeling.

Pleasurable feelings never lasted, however, and Bucky had to reacquaint himself with his surroundings when they approached a door marked with an ancient placard reading, “OFFICE OF RECORDS.” It looked like it was straight out of a show he’d seen from the seventies once: a fake wood panel with slightly rounded off-white letters. Clearly someone had more important priorities than seeing to it that one of their more obscure yet still relatively important sub-departments maintained some semblance of modernity.

The inside was no better. There was a counter at the far end of a tiny entrance, the latter of which contained three chairs that apparently acted as a makeshift waiting area. One was occupied by an older witch with an animal carrier in her lap emitting some rather odd, unidentifiable noises; smoke rose out of the breathing holes intermittently. Steve and Bucky were very careful _not_ to catch each other’s gaze while Sarah strode up to speak with the wizard manning the desk.

Bucky figured he was probably the one to blame for the terrible decorations—the man had to be _at least_ eighty years old, easy.

They held a brief whispered conversation before the ancient wizard used the Jaws of Life to heave himself off his stool and waddle down a corridor behind the counter, presumably to find someone who would know what the fuck they needed to do here.

Using the opportunity, Sarah whispered to him, “Are you sure you want us there with you?”

That had been a topic of conversation at least once a day for the last week. She’d repeatedly offered him a chance for privacy, but Bucky was resolute that he wanted her at the very least to accompany him for this.

“You’re family,” he murmured back with a listless shrug. “You should be there.”

Nodding, Sarah wrapped an arm around his shoulders gently, rubbing her other hand up and down his arm. She and Steve were dressed just as formally as he was, although Steve already had the suit in his closet. It was obviously new enough to fit his broad shoulders and black as opposed to the charcoal suit that Sarah had gotten for Bucky. It wasn’t until he’d seen him in it and Sarah wearing a mid-length, modest black dress that he’d realized it was probably what they wore to the funeral over the summer.

Unlike him, _they’d_ actually gotten to come to the services and say goodbye to his family.

Bucky was allowed just enough time to feel some bitter resentment at the world in general before the wizened wizard made a reappearance, a comparatively young man with long blond hair and a kind smile following in his wake. He hadn’t been aware that he was holding in a tense breath until he let it out, relieved to see that he would be dealing with a pencil pusher rather than some politician for this. It wasn’t hard to tell the difference: a politician would be eyeing him like a steak dinner, probably hoping to get a few good statements out of him, but this guy looked genuine. He looked like someone who read wills with people for a living and understood how hard it was to go through. That was worth more than a commemorative plaque any day.

Once he’d introduced himself as Foggy Nelson (and boy, Bucky hoped that wasn’t his _real_ name, because _what parent would name their kid ‘Foggy’_?), he led them behind the counter and back down the corridor into a midsized conference room. The same imitation windows from the corridors lined the wall, today with a view of snowy mountains reminiscent of the scene outside Hogwarts. There was a long wooden table in the center of the room with plush, comfortable looking leather seats around it. A stack of file folders was sitting at the far end of the table, and Foggy made a beeline for that chair, waving a hand for them to sit where they pleased.

Sarah guided Steve to the opposite side of the table from Bucky, where he could see them if he needed a reassuring smile.

“All right,” sighed Foggy, collapsing in his seat and holding his hands over the stack of folders for a moment before sorting through the various names. “Barnes, right?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Bucky. Foggy thankfully didn’t appear to take his subdued attitude as rudeness, but then he’d probably seen a lot worse from people fighting over who got what set of dishes.

“Here it is!” After a minute of searching, he produced a folder that was admittedly much thinner than Bucky had been expecting. He’d never been to a reading of a will, but in his mind he’d pictured an enormous document that would take hours to pore over if they wanted to read every word. Instead, the last wishes of his parents were apparently contained in a five-page missive.

The one thing that _did_ meet his expectations was that the whole thing was filled with legal jargon he couldn’t begin to follow no matter how long he’d spent trailing along to Ministry events over the years. Foggy read it all out and kindly explained what everything meant for his benefit—the death certificates, the fact that he was the sole beneficiary of his parents’ estate (or what was left of it), and the waiver of death taxes on any monetary inheritance he received. He also explained that Bucky’s own death certificate had been destroyed and his status changed to _living_ under Ministry records so that there would be no trouble or misunderstandings with his collecting on his inheritance.

When they came down to the important bits, the ones that his parents had _actually_ had a hand in rather than the legal niceties that had to be observed with this sort of thing, it didn’t amount to much: the house in London, which had long since been burned down by Hydra; all of his parents’ personal belongings, which had _also_ long since been burned down by Hydra, both in London and Galati; and two vaults in Gringotts Wizarding Bank in Diagon Alley, numbers three hundred fifty-eight and three hundred fifty-nine, the keys to which would be available to him when he showed identification to the goblins running the facility.

Well, that and two hundred thousand dollars from his father’s life insurance policy through work.

“Holy shit,” breathed Bucky as Foggy closed the folder and slid it down the table to him. The Ministry would be keeping a copy for their records, but the originals belonged to Bucky.

“Now, there’s a clause in there that says the money from the life insurance should be used to pay off the mortgage on the house _first_ , but…” Foggy trailed off and shrugged with a sympathetic grimace. “Really no need for that. So it’s all yours.”

“I don’t even know what to _do_ with that much money,” admitted Bucky, smiling timidly.

Foggy leaned forward and lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper. “Well, don’t say that too loud around here—I know a few campaign funds that are in desperate need of some cash, if you know what I mean.”

That got a bit of a chuckle out of him, and by the time they said their goodbyes and were heading back to the Atrium, Bucky thought he felt a little less overwhelmed by the fact that he suddenly had more money to his name than he could fathom.

“I could probably pay the Petrovs back for what they’ve given me to use for school and clothes and stuff,” he mused as they caught one of the empty elevators.

Sarah smiled and suggested, “You could do that, and then put the rest of it away in a savings account or convert the currency and put it in one of the vaults at Gringotts. That way you can just take out what you need.”

“After buying something stupid that you definitely _don’t_ need first,” added Steve with a sly grin. “You could get a little cat mansion for Winter.”

“Asshole, who said I _don’t need_ that?” he scoffed just as Sarah socked her son upside the head, mussing his otherwise perfectly coifed hair.

“I was just kidding!”

“Right, and tomorrow morning I won’t wake up to a delivery of one obnoxiously huge climbing tree,” she muttered, shaking her head as they snorted. “Anyway, while we’re here, there’s something else I wanted to see about.”

As soon as they reached the Atrium and stepped out of the elevator, Sarah guided them over near one of the fireplaces to fix Bucky with an uncertain gaze.

“What do you say to making a stop somewhere before we go to Gringotts?” she asked him cautiously.

“Okay, where?”

Sarah paused for a moment before quietly replying, “I thought you might like to go see your family while we’re here.”

 

***

 

Brompton Cemetery was less like a graveyard and more like a city for the dead. There was no denying that it was beautiful: there were huge trees growing between the plots that would probably be gorgeous during summer when they were in bloom, and monuments cropped up all over with fancy, decorated mausoleums. Some of the headstones were obviously very old, and Sarah had explained when they arrived that there were people buried here whose stories were famous all over the world. Others were much newer, not yet discolored with age and the forgetfulness of the people who no longer visited. In a lot of ways, it was just as much a park full of life as it was a final resting place for the dead. There was a distinct air of peace about it that didn’t encompass most cemeteries, as well. Rather than feeling creepy, like thousands of ancient eyes were staring at you from where they lay beneath the ground in eternal slumber, it was uncommonly serene. Bucky had the passing thought that if he could be buried anywhere, this would be a pretty good spot.

They strolled down the long lanes as Sarah led the way to the very center of the cemetery, taking in the sheer _number_ of graves. They had Apparated back to Brooklyn just long enough to grab winter coats so they wouldn’t be freezing, but it wasn’t as cold as Bucky had been expecting and they were in no rush.

As they approached the chapel, Sarah took out her wand and motioned for them to follow her off the road towards the colonnade. They stepped in under the third arch down and waited while she tapped the wall; Bucky couldn’t see the pattern over her shoulder, but a moment later the bricks shifted aside the same way they did behind the Leaky Cauldron to reveal Diagon Alley.

Glancing back to make sure they were still with her, Sarah stepped through the new archway into a clearing that didn’t look much different from the rest of the cemetery. Bucky could only assume that this was a magical extension purely for their kind, separate from the other plots. It was ironic, really, that his mother should be buried here when she probably would have been the first to say she didn’t want that separation and to just bury her among the Muggles.

He could almost hear her ranting about it in his head, and if it weren’t for the fact that it was tearing his heart in two, it would have made him smile.

They walked through the narrow aisles until they came to a group of headstones set away from the others, one plot appearing very noticeably to have been dug up recently while the other three were more settled.

“We’ll just be over here,” Sarah whispered, forcing her eyes away from the graves and guiding Steve back toward where they’d entered through the hidden archway.

Bucky watched them go, not sure if he was ready to face what he _knew_ he needed to. It had been plaguing him for months that he had no idea what had ultimately happened to his family or where their remains had been taken, but now that he was here it was like he just couldn’t take the plunge. If he looked, it became _real_. If he looked, it was truly all over.

So he let himself stall for just a minute. He let himself look around at the beautiful scenery and the attention to detail on the undoubtedly magically-crafted headstones before he turned back to where his own family lay beneath theirs.

They were relatively plain compared to the others he’d seen, Muggle or otherwise, although they were just as beautiful in their simplicity. A bird had been carved into the top of each stone, two big ones on the left and a smaller one on the third stone over. When Bucky stepped closer, he was able to see that the birds were _actually_ in motion, flapping their wings as they set their sights skyward above matching inscriptions.

> _Winifred Barnes_
> 
> _2 January 1970 – 7 July 2012_
> 
> _Loving Mother and Wife_
> 
> _Defender of Justice_
> 
> _George Barnes_
> 
> _20 September 1970 – 7 July 2012_
> 
> _Loving Father and Husband_
> 
> _Rebecca Barnes_
> 
> _19 August 2001 – 7 July 2012_
> 
> _Loving Daughter and Sister_

_That’s it?_ Bucky thought, gaping at the writing as if there _must_ be some kind of magic switch that would change the words to tell the whole story. To everyone else in the world, he supposed that really was everything to his family, but still, he couldn’t help wondering where the rest was. Where did it talk about how his dad would slip them sweets before dinner when his mom’s back was turned and swear them to secrecy? Where did it say that Becca was one of the smartest kids in the world? Where did it describe his mother’s passion for what she did and how much time and effort she put into everything in her life? Where were all the things that made them _more_ than just mother and father and wife and husband and daughter and sister—as if they could ever be reduced to such rudimentary status roles.

And the fourth stone. The fourth stone on the other side of his sister’s was blank, not one mark on the memorial to show that there had once been a body in that grave. That space was empty now, waiting for the day when Bucky would come to join his family forever, but he knew what it must have said: _Loving Son and Brother_.

He was. But that wasn’t _all_ he was.

For a long while, Bucky couldn’t quite tear his gaze away from the stone that was just as empty as he had frequently felt over the last few months. Someone else had been set to rest there beside his family, long gone, back to the Ministry to probably _never_ find out who they really were. The place they’d stolen had been preserved, and Bucky couldn’t help thinking back to his fifth year when Jarvis recited a line of poetry from one of his many books: _Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there. I do not sleep._

Ironic, really, that he stood at his own grave where he, like the speaker, did not sleep. One day he would. Perhaps it was far off or very near, but one day he would be beneath the earth in this place, finally claiming his spot beside his family the way…maybe he should have already. Whatever his fate should have been, however, he would never know. All he could say with any surety was that if he never found another place in the world where he belonged, at least there would be one waiting for him right here. In a morbid sense, it was comforting.

Vaguely glad he had thought to change into jeans while they were back at the house, Bucky sank down to sit on the cold ground in front of his parents’ and Becca’s graves, turning his eyes away from his own. One day, yes. But not today.

“Hi, Mom. Dad. Becs. I’m here. Sorry it took me so long.”

There was unsurprisingly no answer. Bucky had to clear his throat before he could continue.

“I, uh… I’m back at Hogwarts now. They closed Durmstrang because…because they thought it m-might be linked to Hydra. I know, shocker, right? Always knew those guys were bad news. Nat and Jarvis are with me. So are the twins and Skye, but I don’t really see them much anymore. They’ve made new friends ‘n stuff, so. Yeah.” He laughed suddenly, ignoring how hysterical it sounded. “God, you should see Steve. He’s a tank now—I’m not kidding. He’s… He’s _huge_! I thought he was Thor the first time I saw him. If you thought he was good at Quidditch before, you should see him now. I… Um, I told him, y’know…who I was… I tried not to, I really did, but… It’s _Steve_ , right? Someone else found out after and spilled the beans, anyway, so now everyone knows who I am. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but so far everything’s fine. I would say Fury’s got both eyes on security to make sure nothing _does_ happen, but…well, I mean, you know. It’s nice, though. Being back. Steve invited me over for Christmas, so. I got to see Sarah again. They…they miss you guys. A lot.”

It took a few tries before he could swallow around the lump in his throat, brushing the tears away from where they were stinging his cheeks against the cold winter air.

“Listen, I… I’m sorry I didn’t… Becs, I’m sorry I didn’t get to teach you how to play Quidditch like I promised. You’d probably be awesome at it like everything else. Figure you’d make a pretty good Seeker—you always had a better eye for that junk than me. And sorry I, um… I’m sorry I didn’t spend more time with you last time I was home. I meant to, just… I thought… I just thought there’d be more _time_. Always think there’s more time, I guess, till there’s not. And I-I’m sorry I-I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I left—I’m sorry I didn’t stay longer—I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to _help_ —I’m just… I’m _so_ sorry…”

The rest of the words he wanted to say got choked up in his throat and dissolved, flowing out of his eyes with his tears as he went from crying silently to sobbing. He knew it was pointless to expect absolution from three rocks; he didn’t even know why he bothered apologizing, but he _had_ to—it all just welled up inside until he _needed_ to tell them, wherever they were, that he was _sorry_. He was sorry for everything from the time he’d stolen Becca’s Easter candy out of her basket when he was seven to when he’d yelled at his mother in Fury’s office to when he’d agreed to go to fucking Durmstrang to the moment he’d taken that Portkey and left them all to die.

So, when he was incapable of _telling_ them, he let them _see_. He wept it all out, the physical manifestations of his failure and his grief raining down on the dead grass covering the dead bodies beneath.

After an eternity had passed, leaving him feeling old and withered beyond his years, arms wrapped around him from behind. If he closed his eyes and didn’t think too hard about it, he could fool himself into believing they were _his_ mother’s.

 

***

 

“I’ll need to see some identification,” ordered the goblin behind one of many counters in the lobby of Gringotts.

Bucky dug around in his pocket until he found his birth certificate, which had been reprinted for him at the Ministry and stuffed into the folder with everything else, and handed it across for the goblin to scrutinize closely. After they left the cemetery, he’d almost told Sarah he’d prefer to just go home and return to Gringotts another day; he was utterly exhausted from the emotional upheaval of the last few hours and just wanted to burrow under the comforter he’d dragged into Steve’s room like a sleeping bag with Winter for the next three days until it was time to go back to school.

Instead, he’d decided it might be best to just get it over with. After all, he doubted there would be much to find in either vault. He would take a quick peek and then they could go home.

Once the goblin was confident that everything was in order, he handed Bucky’s birth certificate back and hopped off his stool, disappearing behind the counter while they waited for him to return. It took a few minutes, but then he was coming around the counter with two keys in hand and held them both out to Bucky.

“Vaults three hundred fifty-eight and three hundred fifty-nine,” he confirmed in his raspy voice, to which Bucky nodded. “Follow me.”

They obeyed, the three of them trailing behind him as he led the way toward a door at the end of the hall. Beyond was a dim passageway lit with torches and a cart waiting on a set of tracks built into the floor. The goblin motioned for them to get in before taking a seat at the very front and waving a hand over the controls—then they were shooting off at a speed that put Bucky’s Nimbus to shame.

“Okay,” he called to Steve over the deafening sound of the cold wind flowing past them. “This is _way_ better than a Portkey!”

Steve, who was looking slightly green, shot him a dirty look. “Says _you_.”

 _So much for no more motion sickness,_ he thought with a grin, remembering the time he’d convinced Steve to go on the Cyclone at Coney Island. Hopefully this wouldn’t turn out quite as bad as _that_ did.

The ride wasn’t all that long since Bucky’s vaults weren’t as deep underground as the more high-security ones tended to be. (Rumors abounded that there were _dragons_ guarding those particular vaults, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out if that was true or not.) In no time at all, they were pulling up next to a stone walkway lined with vault doors, and Bucky stumbled out with Sarah and Steve on his heels, the latter looking like he couldn’t be more relieved.

“You play Quidditch— _how_ are you not okay with that?” Bucky demanded uncomprehendingly.

“Quidditch isn’t a fu— _freaking_ rollercoaster, Bucky,” challenged Steve, correcting his language when his mom shot a warning glare at him.

Sighing, Bucky just shook his head in mock exasperation and strode up to the door of three hundred fifty-eight. It was plain, as was the one of the neighboring vault, but when Bucky inserted the key into the lock, his jaw practically hit the floor.

He’d known his parents were relatively well-off. It was the unspoken truth of politics (unless you were _everyone but the politicians_ , who then made it a point to _remind_ you) that it was a lucrative market. He hadn’t realized just _how_ lucrative until that moment when, standing in the open doorway, he saw veritable _mountains_ of Galleons haphazardly lying around.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered as he stepped inside. He doubted he could count all of it even if someone gave him the rest of his life to do so, then remembered they were accompanied by someone whose _job_ it was to keep track. “How much is in here?” he inquired, turning back to look at the goblin waiting for them by the cart.

“Your balance is well over five million Galleons. I can get the exact calculation when we return to my station,” the goblin responded, utterly unaffected by the sum.

Bucky, on the other hand, felt like he had walked into some kind of dream—and he wasn’t sure if it was a good one yet. Five million Galleons, if he was remembering the conversion properly, was over _thirty-six million dollars_. It made his father’s life insurance look like pocket change!

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” he muttered, gawping at the piles of money. He heard Sarah chuckling behind him.

“Well, if you are, make sure you do it outside. You don’t want to stink the place up.”

Laughing breathlessly, Bucky had to turn away— _that_ was just too much.

They locked up the vault after he took a small handful of coins out (he didn’t want to ask the Petrovs for another _thing_ with all this waiting for him), and stepped up to the next door. Bucky took a deep breath before opening the second vault, not quite sure what he was going to do if he looked inside to find even _more_ money he had no use for.

Luckily, that wasn’t what the other vault held at all. Instead it looked like any Muggle storage unit he’d ever seen: there were cardboard boxes stacked everywhere, most of them taped shut while others were just folded closed. Frowning, Bucky stepped inside and peered into the nearest box.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, opening the flaps to find his dad’s old army gear. There were uniforms and folders that probably contained his discharge paperwork, among tons of other things he recognized from his dad’s office in their Brooklyn house. Shifting the box to the side, he glanced around the back end to see his dad’s handwriting in black marker greeting him like an old friend: “ARMY.”

As if he were a man possessed, Bucky got down on his knees to investigate the box underneath—it, too, had been labeled in his father’s familiar script. This one was marked, “OLD TOYS,” and Bucky shoved the previous box out of the way to open one of the flaps. Sure enough, it was filled to the brim with old stuffed animals that had once been either his or Becca’s but had long since been outgrown.

It was impossible. He’d always thought they stored everything where they’d lived—that they’d found room somewhere in the attic in London and all that had been transferred to Romania with them. Could it really be that all his family’s things were _right here_ this entire time?

Apparently it was. Steve and Sarah helped him look through all the boxes while the goblin sighed impatiently at the door and watched. There was a little of everything: old holiday decorations that had been replaced but were too special to get rid of, art projects Bucky and Becca had done when they were in Muggle school and given to their parents as gifts, ancient clothing his parents must have thought would one day come back in style (spoiler alert: shoulder pads were _never_ coming back), old anniversary presents that were too big for their house in London, antique furniture and decorations handed down through the family. Bucky eventually found himself standing in the center of the vault, gripping his hair tightly as he just stared around at it all.

It was _there_. It was _real_.

Sarah gently disentangled his hands and held them between hers before glancing back at the annoyed goblin and asking, “How long did they have this vault?"

“It was reserved for Winifred Barnes in 1981 by her parents with her husband’s name added in 1991,” he rattled off tonelessly. “The latest deposit was made in July of last year by George Barnes.”

Blinking, Bucky shook his head. “July? That would’ve been…” _Right before they died._

“Do you know what they deposited?” questioned Sarah in eager curiosity.

The goblin sighed as if they were asking him to run a marathon, entering the vault and pushing aside a stack of three boxes to pull out his father’s lock box. Frowning, Bucky nearly shoved him out of the way in his fervor, muttering a quick apology as he tested the handle to discover that it was locked.

“Will my wand work in here?” demanded Bucky, offering a slightly repentant smile at the goblin’s raised eyebrow.

“ _Yes_ , it will work.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, pulling his wand out of his coat pocket and aiming it at the lock. _Alohomora!_

There was a tiny click and when Bucky tried again, the box opened easily.

For a moment, he thought there was nothing inside. He remembered his dad keeping all his important documents here—employment contracts, family birth certificates, social security cards, the works. Now, however, there were only three things inside: his father’s dog tags, his mother’s first wedding ring (which his dad had replaced with a fancier one for their fifteenth anniversary), and a little silver ring his parents had gotten Becca as her first _real_ piece of jewelry when she was nine.

Bucky could have sworn someone punched him in the gut, and his voice was nearly inaudible when he addressed the goblin again. “Do you know what day this was left here?”

“The fourth,” was the prompt answer.

Realization dawned on him in the blink of an eye. _He knew what was going to happen if Mom gave that speech. He knew, and he left this here for me._

Slowly and tenderly, as if he was handling some precious and fragile glass sculpture, Bucky’s trembling fingers opened the chain latch on his father’s dog tags. Once he’d strung the rings alongside them, he bowed his head to place the chain around his neck. The weight settled like it was always meant to be there, his family’s heirlooms draped under his shirt beside his heart.

No, three rocks in the earth couldn’t give him any absolution. But his father had.

 

***

 

“Buck, can we please turn out the light now?”

“Sure, Stevie. Knock yourself out.”

“Fucking finally,” grunted Steve, still muffled from where his face was half buried in his pillow. He reached out blindly and missed a few times before he was finally able to flip the switch on his lamp and plunge them into near darkness under the stars on the ceiling.

_Lumos!_

“Aw, _come on_!”

“Don’t be such a whiner.”

“I wouldn’t _have_ to be a whiner if _you_ didn’t have to keep me up at two in the morning.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “You know, there was a time when you could go till at least four.”

“Well,” huffed Steve, rolling over so his back was facing Bucky, “in my old age of _sixteen_ , I guess I need more sleep. What the hell are you doing anyway?”

“Reading,” he responded vaguely as he flipped a page in the folder he was looking through.

“No. Really.”

Snorting, Bucky put the folder down to humor him and explained, “This was in one of the boxes of Mom’s stuff. It looked interesting.”

Steve rolled back over to stare at him as if he was off his rocker. “You just put your mother’s papers and the word _interesting_ together in the same sentence. Did you hit your head or something? Are you sick? Here, let me feel your forehe—“

“Aw, fuck you, Steve!” Bucky swatted his hand away as Steve jokingly reached over to check his temperature. He flipped him off before pulling the file back up into the light from his wand and shrugged. “Seriously, it’s… I guess it’s something she wanted to do before…” _Before everything fell apart._ “It’s some kind of foundation? Like to help kids and animals and stuff?”

“So, a really fancy orphanage with a petting zoo.”

“No,” chuckled Bucky, flipping back to the beginning of his mother’s notes. “It’s, like, an organization that would get funding from the Ministry—“

“Not if Pierce has anything to do with it, I’ll bet,” grumbled Steve darkly. Bucky paused a moment to hum in agreement.

“True. But anyway, it would basically be an all-purpose charity. She wanted to create a safe space for kids without families or with parents who…well, aren’t such great people, I guess. They’d have educational stuff about Muggles and other things to try to help kids learn not to be douchebags like their parents. She even wanted to have some kind of facility where they could keep magical creatures to make sure they aren’t exploited.”

“That’s a little…ambitious?” commented Steve warily.

Laughing a little, Bucky pointed out, “When have you ever known my mom _not_ to be ambitious?”

Steve nodded sarcastically, both of them lapsing into silence as Bucky continued to pore over the document. It sounded like his mom hadn’t really narrowed down _what_ she wanted this place to be, which was probably why the idea had been left abandoned in a box. She definitely wanted to take care of kids and provide them with a space to understand the world around them in ways that growing up with Pureblood parents never really amounted to. There were very few kids like T’Challa, who was a Pureblood but also very experienced with Muggle technology and culture. Bucky and Steve had one Muggle parent each, not that Steve remembered much about his, but they’d gone to Muggle schools long enough to learn plenty about how they lived. His mother used to complain about certain purist families that homeschooled their kids until they got their Hogwarts letters just so they wouldn’t be around Muggles, though, which was what this program of hers was trying to correct. It looked like she was just jotting down ideas on how to do it without narrowing the field a little.

Long after Steve had managed to fall asleep (even _with_ Bucky’s wand lit, _thank you very much_ ), Bucky finally closed the folder labeled _S.H.I.E.L.D._ and set it aside on top of his trunk. His mind continued to scroll through endless possibilities for a while longer, however, even as he settled in under the comforter on Steve’s floor. Eventually, fingering his dad’s dog tags and his mother and sister’s rings, he drifted off to the rhythmic sound of Winter’s sleeping purrs in his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference time:  
> *Bucky's comment about looking your best when you feel your worst is a quote from "Political Animals."  
> *"Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep" is a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye, written in 1932.
> 
> There is a companion one-shot to this chapter from a very special POV that you can find [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7543288/chapters/17490163)


	14. Accidents Happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm excited to say this story made it to being my second most-viewed fic on AO3 last night and is catching up to "World So Cold" quick! Thank you so much for reading, whether you comment, kudo, or just hang around to see what happens! :)

The first two weeks after they got back to Hogwarts were a whirlwind of activity, passing by in a blur. Clint had made good on his warning before the holidays that he would work them to the bone in preparation for their match against Ravenclaw in February—which Sarah had promised she would be present for if she had to fight her way through all the giants in Europe to get there—and they began practicing three nights a week starting the day they got back. Professor Phillips was less than pleased with the turn of events since he would have to supervise every practice per Fury’s orders, but it ended up being a boon having him there as he could shout constructive criticism (cleverly disguised as insults, of course) at them from the stands.

When he wasn’t working on his form on the pitch, Bucky was drowning in all the other things they had to do. His professors had been kind enough not to load them down with homework over the holidays, but they were making up for it now in spades. It was frequently the case that after he got back to his dormitory from Quidditch practice—muddy and stinking to high heaven and bruised and fucking cold—he would give himself only half an hour to shower before he went straight to doing his homework. In the first week alone, he’d been assigned an essay in Defense Against the Dark Arts on the logistics of using a Shield Charm nonverbally (since it couldn’t do damage) versus a Disarming Charm nonverbally (since it kind of _could_ ), two star charts of neighboring galaxies that could only be done on certain _nights_ because they weren’t visible otherwise, been told to practice a spell that would transfigure an animal into an inanimate object and vice versa (which Clint had mastered when they were in their first year), and had to research and outline an argument about the various beneficial properties of lobalug venom in potion-making and healing before they began working with them in Care of Magical Creatures.

It went without saying, but his social life was in the toilet.

Then, of course, he spent the few moments where he wasn’t bogged down in something else alternating between reading over his mother’s S.H.I.E.L.D. notes and researching in the library—which was how Natasha found him on a Friday night two weeks after they got back.

Unfortunately, she’d seen him long before he saw her. The book that slammed down next to where he was drooling on his parchment effectively woke him—and gave him a heart attack—and he glared blearily around until he saw her standing next to his chair with a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

“The fuck, Nat?” he grumbled, inconspicuously wiping the leftover drool off his face with his sleeve.

“Well, hello to you too,” was her mildly sarcastic response as she took a seat beside him and raised an eyebrow at all the books on the table. “I mean, I knew you were avoiding me, but I figured it would be for something other than books.”

Sighing, Bucky tried to argue that he wasn’t avoiding her, but she cut him off with a very heavy, very _fake_ sigh of her own.

“I see how it is. You get your pretty face and your fancy life back—“

“Are you saying I wasn’t pretty before?”

“—and all of a sudden us schmucks from your _other_ life are tossed to the wind,” she finished without acknowledging his wry remark.

Bucky snorted lightly and reached over to grab her hand. Then, with the most sincere smile he could muster, he told her, “Nat. Shut the fuck up.”

He got a good sock to the shoulder for that one and laughed while Nat just rolled her eyes.

“Guess I don’t have a career in acting,” she admitted with a careless shrug. “Oh well. Anyway—you _have_ been avoiding me.”

“It’s not… Seriously, I haven’t _meant_ to avoid you. There’s just…” He trailed off, staring down at the books and papers piled up around him and running a hand through his hair. “There’s just so much to do. This is the only night this week we haven’t had practice—“

“I thought Clint was only your slave driver _three_ times a week,” she interjected, raising a dangerous eyebrow.

Bucky shook his head. “The weather was pretty bad on Monday, so we had to cut it short. He made us go out Tuesday to make up for it.”

Rolling her eyes, Nat leaned her elbows on the table and commented, “I know Quidditch is great and all, but it’s _just_ a game.”

“ _Just_ a game that we need to win or else we get bumped out of first to win the cup,” he pointed out, not that it seemed to do anything for the utter lack of sympathy on her face.

“How terrible,” she deadpanned. She didn’t press the issue, though, reaching out to flip over the book he’d been using as a pillow a few minutes ago. “ _The Magic of Management: Getting Your Business Off the Ground Faster than Muggles_. Well. Sounds like a fascinating read. I didn’t know they _had_ a class for that.”

Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle, though it was thin, and he pulled the book back and closed it with a heavy thud. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, doing the same with the other volumes he’d gathered then standing to return them to the shelves where they belonged. Nat, however, wasn’t so easily deterred and lightly tugged him back down into his seat. Resistance was futile, especially since she quite literally had the ability to curse him to his chair.

“Something tells me it’s not nothing,” she countered, turning to look at him head on. Avoiding her gaze, Bucky just shrugged.

“It’s really not. Just an idea.”

“An idea that—correct me if I’m wrong—probably has to do with this?” She pointed down at his mom’s folder, which he’d forgotten had been open underneath _The Magic of Management_. ( _And seriously, who the fuck let someone name a book that?_ )

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Bucky simply nodded as he carefully stacked the sheets of paper and parchment neatly before closing the folder and stuffing it back in his schoolbag to take with him. He knew he was evading the question, but this was something he hadn’t even shared with _Steve_ yet. Yeah, they’d talked about what his mom’s plans had been—or, rather, her lack of a solid plan—but he hadn’t really mentioned just how much work he’d done researching and putting some ideas together based on the ideas she’d built. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted anyone to know yet. After all, what happened if he let it slip and then failed to deliver? He’d had enough of his failures being plastered all over newspapers and his peers’ faces to last him a lifetime.

Nat wasn’t an idiot, though. Just like she’d figured out the fact that he didn’t _really_ only know fluent Russian (“Seriously? When we met, you sounded so formal I thought you were raised by _aliens_.”), it was only a matter of time before she had this worked out as well. He could already see the wheels turning in her head as they stood up, pushed their chairs in to avoid the wrath of the librarian, and exited the library in silence.

“It’s got something to do with your parents, right?” she inquired, although her tone suggested she was already well aware that it was and just wanted to give him an out. For once, Bucky deliberated only to decide _not_ to take it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, staring down at his feet as they took the stairs toward the lower levels. “My, uh… My mom had this idea for something and I thought maybe…”

He wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. He thought maybe he could do it for her? He thought maybe he could make it his own? He could make it work? He could do something worthwhile with the time he had somehow been given that his family hadn’t? There were so many different answers, none of them completely right _or_ wrong.

Nat seemed to understand that and nodded. “What was the idea?”

 _Well,_ he sighed internally, _you’ve come this far, so you may as well finish the job._

So he told her. He detailed everything he’d explained to Steve in Brooklyn plus a few extra tidbits he hadn’t seen until after Steve had gone to bed that night. He talked about how it seemed like his mother was trying to create a million things under one banner but had bitten off more than she could chew—which was saying something given who it was they were talking about. Then, more hesitantly, he elaborated on what _he_ had been looking into.

“I think it’s a good idea, but she just didn’t know where to start,” he explained. “So I figure, it needs to be narrowed down some. We start with focusing just on providing services for kids who need it— _any_ kids, not just ones who don’t have families. It would be for kids who’ve been abandoned or abused—Pureblood kids who know their parents are fucked up and want to know more about the _real_ world, or Muggle-borns who don’t really know where they fit into all this crap. We’d have facilities for the ones who need places to stay where they’d be taken care of, have food and shelter and clothing and all that. Then there would be classes like…like self-defense and arts and music and tutoring for normal stuff like math and history, but also maybe ones about Muggle life and what it’s like for the Pureblood and half-blood crowds? Maybe down the road we could look into adding that center for animals she wanted—the kids could take care of them and stuff, the ones that aren’t dangerous anyway—it could be another kind of class—“

He didn’t realize he’d been rambling until he found that they’d reached where Nat and his paths to their common rooms would diverge. His face went hot with embarrassment, but when he glanced furtively at Nat out of the corner of his eye, she didn’t look put out or sick of listening. There was a tiny smirk on her face, almost a smile, and he could read that calculating look in her eyes she always got when she was turning something important over in her head. They just stood there in silence for a long minute, although Bucky wasn’t quite sure what he was waiting for—they could have just said goodnight and that would be that. That wasn’t what he wanted, though. In spite of his fear of being incapable of doing all this—there was _so much_ to the whole _running a business_ thing according to those books that his head was swimming—he couldn’t deny that he _desperately_ wanted some feedback that told him he wasn’t reaching for something he couldn’t possibly grasp.

That wasn’t quite what he got.

“This is really important to you, isn’t it?” murmured Nat, locking their eyes together.

“Yeah,” mumbled Bucky honestly. “Yeah, it is.”

“Why?”

Bucky felt his mouth opening and closing, yet nothing came out but some incoherent stammering for a while. Why _did_ he want to do this? It was the question that repeated itself on a loop in his head for the last couple of weeks since the trip to Gringotts, yet he never felt like he was any closer to an answer. Frowning, he fingered the chain hanging around his neck distractedly as he tried to put everything he was thinking into words—without sounding like an idiot, of course.

“I guess,” he began with careful deliberation over every word, “it just feels like the right thing to do? My mom had this idea and…and it’s a _good_ one. So much better than a bunch of the stuff the Ministry’s been doing or was doing before when she was still there. And I feel like…other kids deserve it? Even though they’re…they’re…” _Gone._ He couldn’t bring himself to say the word, but Nat seemed to understand and nodded silently. “I was so _lucky_ to have had them. And I’ve still got Steve’s mom, too. And Tatiana, Mikhail… Not everyone gets that, and…they _should_. This way they _can_ , they can have someone who’s gonna do right by them.”

He paused before chuckling self-deprecatingly. “And, I’d probably be lying if I said it didn’t feel like…like a part of my mom would always be there. The Ministry has a plaque, but…this would _really_ be her legacy, you know?”

By the time he fell silent, Nat’s face had gone blank. She was staring at him as if she’d never seen him before, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad; she hadn’t looked at him that way even when he’d ditched his disguise and reintroduced himself to his friends. Then she reached out and snaked her arms around his neck, hugging him gently like he might shatter if she came too close—or as if _she_ would. It was perhaps the most intimate moment they had ever had together, including their discussion about her past, and Bucky hugged her back just as tenderly. When she eventually pulled away, the smirk had returned with a vengeance.

“So, if you’re going to have self-defense classes, I should _probably_ tell you I spent _years_ learning martial arts before Durmstrang. And you _know_ I’m better than _anyone_ in a duel.”

 

***

 

“Every Saturday,” sighed T’Challa in frustration. “It’s almost as if they don’t know we have plenty of other things to do with our time.”

“What could _possibly_ be better than the magical equivalent of driving?” protested Clint, who hadn’t been able to shut up about Apparition lessons since the schedule had appeared in their common room three days ago.

“Doing homework, playing with Winter,” listed Bucky, ticking each item off on his fingers as they strolled down the _fucking freezing_ path towards Hogsmeade. “Picking my nose, watching Steve and Peggy make out—“

“Fuck you, Buck!” called Steve pleasantly from ahead of him where he was talking with Nat and Jarvis.

“—cleaning the toilets. Anything, really.”

Clint snorted, arguing, “Dude, you’re just saying that because you’ve already _done_ it before.”

“And it’s not something to write home about,” he grumbled, grimacing at the memory of Side-Along Apparating. He’d only been forced to do it on a handful of occasions, but he honestly couldn’t decide which he hated more: Apparating or Portkeys. With the former, you couldn’t breathe; with the latter, that was really the only thing you _could_ do. (And don’t get him _started_ on the Floo Network—it was dirty, it made you dizzy, if you didn’t say where you wanted to go clearly enough you would end up halfway across the world in a Muggle’s fireplace wondering how the fuck you were going to explain _that_ mess…)

Broomsticks, in Bucky’s opinion, were obviously the superior method of transportation.

Sam was of a similar mind, and he’d been practically pouting over their loss of every Saturday until the end of the year (except Quidditch days) just to go to Hogsmeade and learn how to vanish from one place and appear in another instantaneously.

Snow flurries were floating around them on the blustering wind by the time they hustled inside the Three Broomsticks, which had apparently been rented out by the Ministry-hired instructor that would be leading their lessons. All the tables and chairs, even the stools at the bars, had all been cleared away to leave a large open space instead. The bartender, who was wiping down some freshly cleaned glasses when they entered, scowled in their direction as if _they_ were the ones to blame for the fact that the Ministry couldn’t find a better location for this.

“If looks could kill, man,” muttered Sam under his breath. Bucky nodded in agreement.

“We’d probably be better off in the Shrieking Shack.”

“Welcome, everyone,” a heavily accented voice greeted them from the other side of the pub. Bucky frowned, pushing himself up on his toes to see past Steve’s head. The man standing there was the absolute last person he thought he’d see. He was average height, muscular for someone who appeared to be nearing his forties, and had light brown hair with a dusting of dark brown around his cheeks and jaw. His eyebrows were furrowed in a perpetual look of _I Have A Stick Up My Ass And Everyone Knows It_ , and he was wearing a bespoke suit that had to be more expensive than any article of clothing Bucky had ever seen.

Then again, when you were the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, you weren’t exactly hurting for cash.

“What the hell is he doing here?” whispered Steve, leaning back slightly so Bucky could hear him as the footsteps of the students behind them drowned him out.

“You got me,” breathed Bucky in response. “Where’s the instructor?”

Nat shook her head almost imperceptibly. “I think he _is_ the instructor, Yasha.”

She was the only person who refused to call him by his real name, preferring _Yasha_ as sort of a pet name. Usually it made Bucky feel pretty good, like they had a special connection similar to the one he had with Steve, but today it did nothing to ease the sharp pain that stabbed him through the heart.

Once everyone had shoved in and fallen into quiet anticipation of their first lesson, the Undersecretary took a step forward, his hands held loosely behind his back as if he were at parade rest. He stared out over them in close scrutiny for a minute, his eyes lingering slightly longer on Bucky than the others, before he addressed the group of eager sixth years in his Russian accent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Vasily Karpov. Most of you, I am sure, know me as the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,” he began, his voice as toneless as his face was expressionless. “For the next twelve weeks, however, I will be your Apparition instructor.”

“How come it’s not someone from the Department of Magical Transportation?” questioned T’Challa. Based on the whispers and tittering around behind them after Karpov introduced himself, Bucky figured he was probably speaking for all of them.

Karpov, for his part, maintained his perfect composure. “There was no one available at this time to conduct your lessons. Therefore, I had the pleasure of volunteering.”

If there was one thing Bucky had learned from the years he’d spent watching his mother do her job, it was that it was a rare thing indeed when someone in politics volunteered for anything, and even rarer when they did it out of _pleasure_.

“Now, if that is all the questions you have,” he continued, removing his wand from an interior pocket of his jacket and waving it in a circle over the floor. “Please stand inside a hoop.”

For a moment, Bucky wasn’t sure what he was talking about until he noticed that Karpov had conjured plain wooden hoops out of thin air. They were spread out along the floor at even intervals with a couple of feet in between—just enough for them to spread out their arms without touching.

In an attempt to stay as far away from their instructor as possible, Bucky stepped into one of the hoops in the furthest corner of the room. Nat and Steve followed suit, settling themselves in the spaces immediately in front of him as if they were bodyguards. Evidently he wasn’t as good at hiding his discomfort as he’d believed.

As soon as everyone was settled, Karpov stowed his wand away and began pacing in front of them. Professor Phillips probably would have been proud of his form.

“There are three steps to successful Apparition. It is not expected that you perfect these steps and actually Apparate today, however, so do not be disappointed when you fail.”

“Wow, encouraging,” mumbled Sam from where he was positioned to Bucky’s right. Bucky managed to turn his snort into a cough just in time.

“These three steps—or, if you prefer, the three Ds—are _Destination_ , _Determination_ , and _Deliberation_. The first is obvious: you focus all of your attention on the place you wish to travel to. If you think of a general location, such as London, it will not be effective. You will still be able to manage the Apparition, but there is always the question of where you will land. Many a witch or wizard has died making that exact mistake. Make sure that it is not you.”

 _This is going to be twelve fucking_ long _weeks._

It was all he could do not to tune out the rest of the instructions, feeling like they were muddling together in his head all the same: determination meant _willing_ himself to appear where he wanted to, deliberation meant to turn with _purpose_ (because _magic_ ), only try it when he gave the signal, don’t be stupid and think of two places at once or somewhere dangerous, don’t try to Apparate outside the building, blah blah blah. He gave them the typical horror story about an Apparition gone horribly wrong—apparently if you weren’t determined enough or you thought of more than one destination, you ran the risk of Splinching yourself. He described a few different circumstances; the worst by far was the wizard who had arrived in Paris only to find he’d left the lower half of his body in Rio. At least the others had only lost limbs or clothes or, in milder cases, small bits of flesh. Bucky honestly couldn’t imagine how dreadful it would be to arrive at his destination to see that he’d left a foot behind.

“The space that you will attempt to Apparate to is the spot to the immediate _left_ of your hoop,” Karpov went on, never once breaking stride even to make eye contact with them. “You may begin now.”

Steve swiveled around to look at Bucky, his eyebrows practically touching his blond hair. “That’s it?” he whispered incredulously. “Just _think about it, now off you go_?”

“Guy’s a douchebag,” grunted Bucky under his breath, scowling up at where Karpov was now leaning against the wall to watch their initial attempts.

In the hoops around him, the expressions of his classmates were anything from frustrated to determined to confused to constipated. (He _really_ hoped those ones were just visualizing where they wanted to be _extra_ hard.)

Sighing, Bucky closed his eyes and tried to envisage the spot next to him outside the hoop. He wasn’t quite sure he was even doing it right; he just sort of…thought about it? In excruciating detail, of course, but still. It felt like he was missing something.

When he turned (with _conviction_ ), all he accomplished was tripping over his right foot and almost going sprawling across the floor.

To his relief, so did Sam and Steve. Nat and T’Challa had a particularly disgusting grace that somehow kept them on their feet while the rest of them stumbled around like morons.

No one in the Three Broomsticks was successful on their first try. Or their second. Or their twelfth. By the time they were gathering their coats and preparing to brave the cold to head back to the castle for the evening, everyone was disgruntled and in poor spirits. Even though Karpov had said not to expect to do anything significant today, they’d all still been hoping for at least a _little_ something. All Bucky felt was a nearly imperceptible tingling in the pit of his stomach on his sixth or seventh try, but he doubted that that had anything to do with Apparating when his stomach growled a second later.

Just as he was almost to the door, Bucky heard Karpov’s voice behind him call, “Mr. Barnes, a word, please.”

What really grated on his nerves was that it most certainly didn’t sound like a request.

His collection of friends (which had grown larger now that _both_ groups had a more significant link than study sessions and classes) paused at the door, Nat and Steve in particular glaring in Karpov’s direction with distrust.

“We’ll wait for you,” whispered Steve, not taking his eyes off the Undersecretary for a second.

“You guys don’t have t—"

“We’ll wait,” agreed Nat, her tone brooking no argument. Bucky just nodded once in grateful acquiescence before turning around and taking a few steps back toward where Karpov was gathering his own things to presumably leave for the Ministry.

The steely eyes that locked on him were cool, almost expressionless if not for the glint of _something_ that Bucky couldn’t identify.

“How did you fare with today’s lesson?” he inquired as if he couldn’t possibly care less about how he’d done.

Bucky raised an eyebrow and tried not to sound _too_ rude as he brusquely retorted, “Fine.”

Karpov didn’t seem put off with his vague answer, but that was probably because the question had been a farce to begin with.

“The Minister asked that I inquire after your wellbeing,” he commented. His tone never changed; they could have been talking about the weather or a nuke going off for all he appeared to give a shit. “He recognizes that this must be a difficult time for you—“

“I’m managing just fine,” Bucky cut him off, not wanting to hear the _We Care For Your Health_ bullshit.

Nodding, Karpov’s mouth actually tilted into a tiny mockery of a smirk as he continued, “He has been considering a scholarship for you if you should choose to attend a Muggle college after completing Hogwarts, or an internship at the Ministry if that would be more to your liking. I was hoping to gauge your interest so that he can begin formulating a program that will work for you.”

Bucky couldn’t help staring at him, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth hanging open because he _couldn’t believe what this fucker was saying._

“I have absolutely _no_ interest in _any_ of it,” he spat, preparing to storm out. Karpov caught his arm and pulled him back around, however; there was a scuffle against the floor behind Bucky where Steve had probably moved to step in if things escalated.

Karpov paid him no mind, remarking in the same monotone, “Think about what you would be sacrificing. It would behoove you to at least consider this gracious offer.”

“It’s already _been_ considered,” snarled Bucky, yanking his arm away and taking a few steps backward. “You tell the Minister I don’t want his pity and I don’t want his money. I have everything I need and don’t want a _thing_ from him _or_ from the Ministry. Maybe he should concentrate on pulling his head out of his ass and doing his job the _right_ way instead of me."

With that, Bucky whirled around and stomped away. Karpov called lightly from behind him, “Shall I tell him you said that?”

“You can _quote_ me,” shot back Bucky, already halfway out the door.

He knew his friends flanked him as soon as they were outside, but Bucky didn’t listen to their verbal abuses against Karpov as he fumed in silence. Who the fuck did the Minister think he was? Bucky thought he’d made it pretty obvious where he stood with the Ministry—he didn’t want any part of it, whether it was for his mother’s sake or otherwise. The last thing he needed was some schmuck offering him scholarships and internships and probably anything he fucking wanted just so the next issue of the _Daily Prophet_ could tell everyone all about how _former Undersecretary Barnes’s son supports the Pierce administration_.

Fuck Karpov, fuck Pierce, fuck the _Prophet_ —fuck it all.

 

***

 

“Lobalugs are generally thought of as some of the least interesting magical creatures, probably second only to flobberworms, but you should have seen that they have some unique properties that make them particularly valuable in the Wizarding world regardless. Their venom, which is deadly to humans and other creatures on its own, can be neutralized by other ingredients to be used in potions, most frequently those for healing. In fact, the use of lobalug venom is essential in the treatment of poisoning from its _own_ venom. Since they’re so hard to catch, however, and as their venom is a strictly controlled substance, it is often difficult to treat lobalug poisoning quickly.”

Sam’s jaw twitched as he hissed through clenched teeth, “So we’re gonna go swimming with ‘em. That sounds _so_ smart.”

“They’re only dangerous if they think you’re attacking them,” whispered Bucky, thinking back to what he’d read in his research.

“Uh-huh. That makes me feel _way_ better, Buck.”

“Now,” Professor Ross continued, gesturing towards a pile of brightly colored galoshes lined up at the edge of the Black Lake in front of them. “Grab a pair of boots. Lobalugs live in colder environments, particularly the North Sea. It wasn’t exactly feasible for us all to go there, though, especially since we’d have to be somewhere in the _middle_ to really see them. So, thanks to Professor Fury and the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, we had a shipment brought in; this time of year, the water is cold enough that they won’t know the difference.”

 _You ain’t kidding._ Given that February was still a little over a week away, the weather outside was frigid—and they would be wading into the Black Lake with the coldblooded creatures in order to get a better look. All Bucky could say was that he was glad this would be their last class for the day; afterwards, he was taking a hot fucking shower and burrowing in his warm bed. _Maybe_ he would emerge long enough to get something hot to eat and drink from the Great Hall at dinnertime, but he wasn’t quite sure yet. That already sounded like too much _effort_.

There was a fair bit of grumbling from the rest of the class, so Bucky at least didn’t feel alone in his reluctance. Even T’Challa, who generally tended to do what they were told in lessons without a great deal of complaint, had a positively miserable air about him as they grabbed galoshes and threw them on over their normal shoes.

Professor Ross instructed them to get in pairs, one of whom would wade into the water to observe the lobalugs while the other stayed nearby to record their findings on a sheet of parchment; they would switch after ten minutes, then begin comparing their notes to what they found in their theoretical research. (Bucky could _sense_ there was an essay on the horizon.)

Steve and Bucky glared at each other for a moment, each knowing they would have their turn but decidedly _not_ wanting to go first. Eyes narrowed with malice firmly rooted in their gazes, neither willing to cede any ground to the other, they simultaneously realized there was only one real way to resolve this conflict.

“Rock, paper, scissors—shoot!”

“Goddamn it!” shouted Bucky, cringing when he saw Professor Ross raise an eyebrow in his direction. “Best two outta three.”

“Hell no,” snorted Steve, shaking his head and grabbing a sheet of parchment and pen (which he’d taken to using instead of quills because he was getting to be quite the rebel in his old age, or so Bucky teased him). “You lost fair and square. Tell me how the water is.”

Unable to refrain from pouting slightly, Bucky mumbled under his breath, “I’d be happy to _show_ you, but you’re too heavy to toss,” before taking a few steps tentatively towards the lake.

Apparently Clint had pulled the short straw too and glared over at him in commiseration before taking a deep breath and entering the water. From the way he automatically shivered and appeared to grow a thousand times more despondent, Bucky had a feeling those galoshes really weren’t doing much. This was going to suck, especially since he didn’t know the incantation for a Hot-Air Charm that didn’t require him to be holding his wand the whole time.

So, mentally steeling himself, Bucky leaned forward and dipped his left foot into the icy cold water.

The galoshes really didn’t help to do more than keep his pants dry; he’d been smart enough to leave the longest of his robes, which the boots wouldn’t protect, on the shore so that he wasn’t a sopping mess by the time they were through. They reached almost halfway up his thighs, so it was unlikely that he would get any water in them unless he strayed out _really_ far, but the rubber did absolutely nothing to insulate his skin against the cold.

 _Ten minutes… That’s all, just ten minutes… Focus on the lobalugs and then it’ll all be over and_ Steve _can get his ass out here._

Speaking of Steve, the Gryffindor took that moment to inquire innocently, “How’s the water?”

“W-w-why d-don’t you c-come in a-and f-f-f-f-find out?” he retorted through chattering teeth, not bothering to turn around as he waded in deeper. Steve, the asshole, just snickered.

The water had appeared steel grey from the shore, but it was surprisingly clear the further he went. In some places it was a bit cloudy; otherwise he was able to see almost to the mud at the bottom. A few other people had apparently already found the creatures in the shallows from the sounds of their exclamations. He glanced over to see Clint, his face hovering a mere inch from the surface, frowning down at something before he glanced up at Bucky with a huff.

“These things are gross, man,” he warned him.

“Then y-you’ll get along f-f-fine.”

Clint flipped him the bird with a smirk on his face, and Bucky returned the gesture before looking down to try to find his own creatures to observe. It took a few minutes, but when he finally did, he had to admit that Clint’s assessment was fairly accurate. In the books he’d read, lobalugs were basically like worms. They were less than a foot long with a sac that, according to what he’d seen, contained the venom Professor Ross had warned them about. In pictures, they seemed fairly commonplace.

In person, however, they were the ugliest things Bucky had ever seen. They were slimy and had strange, suction cup-like mouths at the front, and the venom sacs were wider around than their bodies—so much so that he wouldn’t be surprised if they were more venom than anything else. Most of them were a pale yellow color, which made them easier to see against the backdrop of the dark mud, but there were a few that were varying shades of green and dark blue. The sight of them in real life _almost_ made Bucky think of leeches or slugs, but much longer.

“Professor, it’s staring at me!” moaned Darcy where she’d obviously lost to Jane for who got to go first.

There was a tiny, patient smirk on Ross’s face when she assured her, “Unless they feel threatened, lobalugs are peaceful. They’ll ignore you if you don’t make any sudden moves toward them.”

“But they’re _naaaaastyyyyy_ …”

“Suck it up,” grumbled Clint. He froze in place before turning slowly to Bucky with a grin that clearly indicated he was up to no good. “Soooo, you think you can buy these around Halloween?”

Snorting, Bucky shook his head. Clint had never gotten over the fact that Darcy had named the rat Clint transfigured in their first year _Harold_ and kept him as a pet instead of freaking out. “You can try, but she’ll probably just name it Eugene.”

Clint seemed to think about that for a minute and nodded. “Probably.”

“We’ve got about three minutes before you’ll switch places with your partner,” Ross advised them sternly. “Make sure you record a few observations while you’re out there.”

“Yeah, Bucky, pay attention,” tutted Steve in mock disappointment.

The only reason—the _only_ reason—Bucky didn’t tell him exactly where he could shove his attention was the fact that Ross was crossing behind Steve at that very moment. Which the jerk had probably planned on purpose.

“ _Okay_ , so they’re slimy,” he pointed out with a look he hoped indicated that they would be having _words_ later, “and a few different colors.”

“What colors?”

Bucky rattled off what he’d seen. “And their venom sacs are bigger than their bodies.”

“Seriously?!” exclaimed Steve, his mouth drawn down in disgust with his pen hovered over the paper.

“Yup. You’re gonna love it.”

Grumbling, Steve ducked his head to take down what Bucky mentioned as the latter turned back around to get more information in the couple of minutes he had before the blissful relief of getting back on dry land. Most of the lobalugs had wandered off, but there was one that, just as Darcy had complained, was staring right at him. The creature’s eyes were a milky color incongruous with the blue or black they should have been, and Bucky squinted to make sure it wasn’t just a cloud or glare reflecting off the water. It wasn’t. Bucky barely had time to consider telling Steve or asking Ross what that meant before the lobalug was moving towards him—a hell of a whole lot faster than it should have.

_Shit shit shit what do I do what do I do—_

Bucky didn’t have time to weigh the benefits of sudden movements around a poisonous creature when it attached itself to his left galosh. The rest was instinct: he jerked backwards at the same moment the venom sacs squeezed closer to the lobalug’s body and ejected something that turned to mist as soon as it broke the surface of the water.

Panicking, Bucky waved his arms in his face to dispel it, a rock behind his foot making him lose his balance. He fell backwards, the cold water attacking his senses as he fought to breathe around a sudden obstruction in his throat. Instead, all he got was water in his lungs—much less than there should have been—and his eyes felt like they were swelling to twice their size in his skull as the water turned a dark shade of yellow all around his face. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move—he didn’t know which way was up even though he could see the sky through the surface of the water _right there_ —

Then there were hands under his arms and someone was hauling him out of the water—liquid sputtered up out of his throat, but he still couldn’t draw breath. He was dimly aware that it was Clint hauling him back to shore, literally _dragging_ him because his limbs weren’t moving right and felt like jelly beneath him.

Steve had dropped his parchment and met them halfway, grabbing Bucky’s other arm and hoisting him up out of the water.

Even as he wheezed and tried to get air in his lungs, both of which absolutely refused to cooperate with him, Bucky could see a blue blur on his boot where the lobalug was still sticking on.

Its eyes were black now.

Then it was gone and he was on his back and he still couldn’t breathe but he heard Ross’s voice telling everyone to get out of the water and she was leaning over him and Clint was saying something and then there was nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The three Ds of Apparition are literally taken from _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_.  
>  *The description of the lobalug is based on what I found through internet sources about how it was mentioned in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ , which I have never read. 
> 
> Well, I guess I now return you to your regularly scheduled shitstorm! See you guys tomorrow! :)


	15. Down the Rabbit Hole

When Bucky woke up, he felt like someone was taking a hammer and repeatedly smashing it into his forehead. Everything was burning—his skin, his eyes and their lids, _everything_ —but he was shivering nevertheless. It felt like the air itself was pricking him with needles all over. His brain was the only part of him that wasn’t overstimulated, murky despite the persistent ache. Aside from pain and discomfort, the world was all fuzzy as if he was stuck in some kind of cloudy dream where he couldn’t tell where he was or what was happening—he wasn’t even quite sure he _was_ awake at all.

There were voices, however, and he tried devastatingly hard to pry his eyelids open despite their determination to remain shut. It took an embarrassing number of tries, and even then he was only able to manage a tiny slit to see through, then he was staring up at blurry faces against something blue. Voices he couldn’t make out were surrounding him, mumbling gibberish while he burned to death where he lay.

“You need to hold still,” one of them said, sounding like someone was turning a dial on the volume up and down in the middle of the words.

Bucky whimpered, shifting in place only to cry out when it felt like his bones were shattered glass piercing through his skin.

“Shh, I know it hurts,” the same voice said, still distorted and muffled. “Just try to lie still.”

“Will one vial do?”

“Make it two just to be safe. How many were there?”

“Barton said he saw five.”

Bucky opened his mouth to ask what they were talking about and where he was and what was happening but nothing came out the way it was supposed to. Then there was a sharp scratch on the inside of his elbow that could have been a knife digging viciously into his arm and wetness in his throat—

 

***

 

His mom was there. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, smoothing his hair back from his face with a concerned expression on her own.

“What happened?”

He struggled to answer—it was like an elephant was sitting on his chest.

Tutting, his mom shook her head and leaned over to kiss his forehead. It wasn’t really a _kiss_ so much as putting her lips to his skin and sensing the temperature the way she’d done when he was little to see if he had a fever. He probably did—and it was probably a doozy—because when she straightened back up, her brow was furrowed even deeper than it had been before.

“I think he’s getting worse.”

His dad sighed from where he was standing next to the curtain surrounding the bed, arms folded over his chest. His eyes were shadowed as if he’d been awake for a long time with no reprieve, but he didn’t sound as exhausted as he looked when he shook his head and pointed out, “He’ll get worse before he gets better.”

“Shouldn’t it be working by now, though?” huffed his mom, a little of that old fire lighting up behind her eyes to combat the worry she was undoubtedly feeling.

“It is,” shrugged his dad. “It’s just going to take some time for his body to work through it, that’s all.”

“How does something like this even _happen_?”

“We’ll have to ask him when he’s able to answer.”

His mom rolled her eyes impatiently. “There should be someone who can answer _now_. Where the hell was the professor?”

“Supervising them. When you’re dealing with things like that, though, it’s not like they can be everywhere at once,” his dad tried to console her gently. His mom wasn’t having any of it, of course.

“Bullshit,” she muttered, returning her attention to stroking his hair. Her cool skin was like ice against his forehead, and he groaned in appreciation at the relief. “If they don’t have enough people to watch, they shouldn’t be handling stuff like that at all. Period.”

Doing something halfway between a shrug and a nod, his dad straightened up from leaning on the curtain post and advised her, “Well, you can take that up with Professor Fury.”

“Believe me, I intend to.”

 

***

 

“—an probably just let them know he’s sick and he can make it up next week.”

“I guess. Do they _do_ that, or will they make him take the whole course again?”

“I doubt that. And if they try it, I’ll have a nice talk with them about their cute little rules. He doesn’t need to learn to Apparate _that_ badly.”

“Karpov’s a dick, but apparently the Minister wanted him to suck up to ‘im last week, so maybe he’ll let it slide.”

“Watch your mouth, Steven.”

“He _is_!”

“I know that. Doesn’t mean I want to hear it coming out of your mouth.”

“You say it all the time.”

“Do as I—“

“—say, not as I do.”

“That’s my boy. Oh, watch her—“

There was a sudden weight on his chest different from the one Bucky had felt last time he was awake—had he _been_ awake? He wasn’t sure—and a second later, soft fur preceded a rough little tongue brushing against his cheek. Sniffing, he scrunched up his face a few times until he was able to get his eyes open; he had to blink rapidly before they decided to _stay_ that way. There was a tiny mewl, and then he just barely saw a flash of black fur before Winter pressed her face into his jaw.

“Bucky? Steve, grab Winter, will you?”

“M’no,” grunted Bucky, trying and failing to lift his noodle-like arm to hug Winter to him. He settled for shaking his head slowly instead—or maybe just tipping it sideways so his cheek landed against the pillow. “Sh’s’fne.”

That must have sounded enough like English for them to understand what he was saying, because no one tried to remove Winter from her perch. There _were_ footsteps, however, and he hadn’t noticed his eyelids had fallen closed again until someone was pulling them open so he could see Madam Bishop hovering over him.

“Fever’s broken,” she was saying distractedly. “Pupils are dilating normally again. How do you feel?”

There was a brief moment that passed before Bucky realized she was talking to him. He had to clear his parched throat a few times until he could choke out, “Sore.”

Madam Bishop nodded knowingly. “That’ll probably last for a few days. Any sharp pain, or just muscle weakness?”

“The…the second one,” he answered after having to go back over the options again. His brain felt like it was swimming through sludge just to form the simplest thoughts.

“That’s normal, then. I’m going to get some potions for him that’ll help with some of the pain.”

Apparently that _wasn’t_ meant for him, and she disappeared right after. His eyes slipped shut again, but he fought to open them when someone put a hand behind his head to lift it; a moment later, the plastic edge of a cup was against his lower lip. He opened his mouth and instantly felt relief as cool water saturated his throat. It wasn’t until after the cup was removed that he managed to blink his eyes into something close to focus. Everything more than a foot away from him was blurry, so it took a few seconds for him to recognize Steve sitting in a chair beside his bed. He was about to ask what was going on—he knew it was _something_ bad, but he couldn’t seem to figure out _what_ —when a weight settled on the mattress on his other side. It was like shifting blocks of granite, but he somehow got his head to roll around to see Sarah gazing down at him with a worried frown.

“What’re you doing here?” he slurred, blinking slowly. It didn’t help the room or his brain get any clearer.

Sarah reached out to brush a strand of hair off his forehead and explained, “I was always your secondary emergency contact. Fury notified me of what happened, so…here I am.”

“W-what happened?” Maybe if _she_ knew, he wouldn’t have to try so hard to figure it out.

Unfortunately, his question had the unexpected disadvantage of making Sarah look that much more uncomfortable with the situation. “You don’t remember?”

“Mm-mm.”

Sarah and Steve exchanged a wary glance before Steve pushed himself to the edge of his chair and slowly prompted, “The lobalug? In class?”

Bucky blinked. “The things we did the paper on?”

“Yeah,” confirmed Steve encouragingly. “Remember, Professor Ross had us looking at real ones?”

Frowning, Bucky was able to fully shake his head this time. “We’re not doing that till Monday.”

There was that look again. He was beginning to sincerely wonder if he was going nuts.

“Bucky, do you know what day it is?” asked Sarah quietly.

He closed his eyes for a second, mentally pushing the sludge back a bit so he could try to recall the last thing he’d done. He remembered Apparition lessons with that douchebag Karpov… Then he and Nat had done some research about starting up S.H.I.E.L.D. that night… Everything after that was foggy.

“Sunday?” he guessed halfheartedly, already knowing from the looks on their faces that he was definitely wrong.

“It’s Thursday, Buck,” corrected Steve. Bucky thought his eyes might be bugging out of his head.

“Thursday? But… That’s not…”

“We looked at the lobalugs on Monday, like you said,” he went on to explain. “One of ‘em poisoned you. You’ve been here ever since.”

Bucky was silent, racking his brains to remember something, _anything_ about their lesson on Monday. Or what he did on Sunday, for that matter. There was nothing, though. A few things were muzzy, like there was a grey film over top making the memories indistinct, but the rest was a huge blank. He had absolutely no recollection of even _going_ to Care of Magical Creatures this week let alone looking at lobalugs.

When he said as much, Madam Bishop happened to come back at the same time, reassuring them that that was common and would likely correct itself within the next week or so.

“If not…” She shrugged, prodding Bucky’s shoulder when he didn’t immediately drink the potion she handed him. “There are worse things to _not_ remember.”

_Sure, says you._

He didn’t have long to dwell on it, however, since it appeared that Sarah and Steve were planning to keep him from doing just that. Steve filled him in on what he’d missed that week—which apparently included the funniest wipeout ever by one Timothy Dugan at the Quidditch practice he obviously hadn’t attended—and told him that most of his friends had tried to visit only to be sent away by Madam Bishop to let him rest. Well, to let him rest and hallucinate in peace if Steve was to be believed. Just like the rest of it, he had no memory of what had been going on in the hospital wing over the last few days.

All the while, Winter purred into his neck, occasionally emerging to groom the tiny bit of stubble that was beginning to grow in patches on his cheeks and chin. According to Sarah, Clint had dropped her off on the first night because she was missing him, much to Madam Bishop’s chagrin; the latter only let his cat stay on the premise that she wouldn’t make a fuss or break anything.

Between Winter showering him with affection and Steve keeping up a steady stream of conversation (albeit one-sided), Bucky was thoroughly preoccupied for most of the day. The distractions were intermittent, though, given that Bucky kept falling asleep during Steve’s stories. Madam Bishop assured him that was normal and he’d feel drowsier than usual over the next few days, which was why she wanted him to stay in the hospital wing a bit longer, but it was still inconvenient and he sheepishly apologized every time he woke up.

Fury popped in sometime after curfew had already passed—one stink-eye later, Steve was bidding goodnight to Bucky and his mother and beating a rather hasty retreat. The headmaster didn’t stay long, however. He’d asked (in a voice much softer than Bucky was used to hearing from him) if he remembered anything about what happened and, when Bucky reiterated that he didn’t, explained what they knew already: that Clint had seen him fall, venomous mist in the air where his face had been a moment earlier, and dragged him out of the Black Lake back to shore. Once there, Professor Ross had administered some kind of potion she kept on hand to lessen the swelling in his throat so he could breathe, but he’d already passed out by that point. Thankfully, they had plenty of lobalugs at the ready to create an antidote—though he’d had to ride through the worst of his symptoms regardless.

Four days of a fever. Four days of vomiting. Four days of hallucinating. Four days of Sarah thinking he might die right after getting him back.

_Way to be a total asshole, Barnes._

Eventually, once Fury was satisfied that Bucky would come to him if he remembered anything about the incident, he swept out of the hospital wing as silently as he’d arrived. Sarah, who had apparently taken up residence on the bed next to his until he was better, moved from her chair back onto his mattress and ran her fingers through his hair.

“You need to sleep,” she told him quietly, reaching out her free hand to douse the lamp on his bedside table.

And he thought he’d been so sneaky keeping them from noticing the way his eyelids drooped by about halfway through Fury’s visit.

Nodding, Bucky settled down lower in the bed and waited while Winter moved from where she’d been dozing in his lap to burrow under his arm (with her face in his armpit because she could be weird like that when she was feeling clingy). Sarah chuckled lightly at the sight before pulling the covers up to his chin and pressing a kiss to his forehead the way his parents used to tuck him in when he was little. He couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed at being treated like a kid; it felt too nice.

“Sarah?”

“Yeah?”

“’M sorry,” he whispered. Sarah didn’t seem to understand what he meant for a minute; when the realization struck her, he saw her face fall slightly.

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t be,” she reassured him, kissing his forehead again. “This wasn’t your fault.”

Shrugging listlessly, he grunted, “Still.”

Sarah just shushed him, running a finger over his eyelids to get him to close them. It wasn’t long after that, with the quiet sounds of Winter’s purring and Sarah’s even breathing, that he drifted off once again.

 

***

 

Bucky wasn’t allowed to leave the hospital wing until Sunday afternoon. In spite of the cessation of most of his symptoms, Madam Bishop was insistent that he should remain in a relaxed, quiet atmosphere so he could sleep as much as possible. He’d certainly done that; he frequently found himself drifting in and out, and not due to boredom.

There were a few occasions where he was allowed visitors (one at a time because he was being treated like an invalid for the foreseeable future), so he had a chance to catch up with his friends. T’Challa had collected notes and assignments that he missed so he would be able to make them up later (which Bucky was positive he’d appreciate more when he was better), and Clint came to tell him that Phillips delayed the Quidditch match against Ravenclaw for two weeks until he was back on his feet and in fighting form.

“What?” Bucky had groaned at the news, his voice gravelly from the nap he’d only recently woken up from. “But I’m fine, really.”

“You needed me to help you get to the bathroom two hours ago,” deadpanned Sarah, utterly unconcerned with the fact that she was totally ruining his bravado. The smirk on Clint’s face had been enough to tell him he’d be hearing about that for at least another ten years.

So, Quidditch was off the docket for a while. He’d had to miss his Apparition lesson the Saturday after he woke up; Sarah wrote a note for Karpov that she gave to Steve, who came to see him before heading to Hogsmeade. Saturday was the first day he started feeling well enough to do something besides engage in listless conversation between naps, so he sat up playing wizard chess with Sarah for most of the day while trying to keep Winter from mauling the moving pieces. It reminded him of the times when they were kids that Bucky had gone over to Steve’s house while the latter was sick so they could play games that might cheer his best friend up, and despite the situation and his continued lapse in memory, Bucky found himself having a pretty good time.

Well, when he put the amount of catch-up he would be playing for a while out of his mind, anyway.

At least there was one area where he wouldn’t have to make up for lost time. Nat showed up on Saturday night to tell him she’d continued researching the best way to get S.H.I.E.L.D. off the ground and thought that, based on what Bucky was hoping to accomplish, they could go the nonprofit route. It would be more work with a little less monetary return than a typical business, but it would be worthwhile and there were methods to make everything happen the way they needed it to. Besides, although Bucky didn’t share it right away, he had plenty of capital to start them off between what he’d found in Gringotts and the life insurance Sarah had helped him file before the end of their vacation.

He hadn’t been sure whether he was ready for Sarah to know what he was thinking, but it turned out to be a good thing Nat spilled the beans. Sarah had a wealth of knowledge about the process after how long she’d worked in a hospital, where she dealt with plenty of nonprofit and charity organizations on a daily basis, and she offered her services to help them get started whenever Bucky was ready. There was still the lingering tingle of anxiety that this would all flop and he’d be a disappointment, but having more help would hopefully make that less likely, right?

With yet another weight eased from his shoulders, which had begun to seem like shelves for all his baggage by that point, Bucky was feeling pretty good about things by the time Sunday afternoon rolled around and he was ready to be discharged from the hospital wing.

Sarah departed as soon as she was positive he was truly well enough to leave the infirmary. On their way out the door, she forced him to promise that he would write to her if anything else happened or he remembered something from the incident in Care of Magical Creatures. It had been a promise he was most reluctant to make, especially when he felt bad enough about her taking a week off just to sit and watch him sleep, but he figured she would find out from Steve or Fury anyway and submitted to her will. Then, with a kiss and a pledge to be at his Quidditch match on the new date, she’d left for home while Bucky carefully made his way back down to the dormitory with Winter in his arms. She’d been just as much a constant at his bedside as Sarah, and the fact that he was up and moving obviously made her indescribably pleased—probably so she could get back to important feline business like playing with her toys and not worrying about her stupid human, but hey, she was his rock anyway.

Sam, Clint, and Jarvis were in the common room when he got there, right in the middle of a game of Exploding Snap. When Bucky cleared his throat, their eyes snapped up to him with three eerily matching grins. A few others around the common room smiled and waved to see him as well. He just inclined his head awkwardly in acknowledgement as he made his way over to where his friends were congregated.

“He lives!” exclaimed Sam, throwing his hands jubilantly into the air.

Rolling his eyes, Bucky retorted, “You just saw me yesterday, you idiot. Of _course_ I’m alive.”

“Well, it’s still nice to see you up and walking around,” asserted Jarvis before Sam could make another sarcastic comment. He’d only visited once since Bucky woke up, but he’d heard from Steve that Jarvis had come to the hospital wing with Nat every day while he was unconscious just to see if he was still alive. Madam Bishop had booted them out each time without letting them see him, but it was the thought that counted.

“It’s nice to _be_ walking around,” admitted Bucky, grunting when his still aching muscles protested to sitting on the floor with them. “God, that hurts.”

Clint snorted. “But I thought you were just _fine_ to play Ravenclaw next weekend,” he alluded to their prior conversation innocently, sniggering when Bucky shot him a filthy look.

“Flying doesn’t require me to stand up.”

“Yeah, it just means you have to hold on to your broom, keep your balance, hold a bat—“

“Oh, fuck off,” grumbled Bucky, hugging Winter tighter. She mewed and licked his nose, which he took as a sign of support for the suffering he endured at the hands of the assholes he was friends with.

Regardless of their snarky tit for tat, there was something he hadn’t gotten a chance to say yet so, idiot or not, he turned to Clint and told him, “Thanks, by the way. For getting me out.”

“No problem, man,” he shrugged, looking back down at his cards as if it really _were_ nothing.

“We should get him a cape, huh?” suggested Sam with an evil smirk. “Super Clint, anyone?”

“Nah, _Hawkeye_ can be his superhero name,” corrected Bucky, referring to the sobriquet Clint had earned from the rest of their house for his prowess in spotting the Snitch.

“It does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“My _hero_ ,” drawled Bucky in a high-pitched tone.

“Don’t make me punch you when you just got outta the hospital wing,” mumbled Clint, not bothering to look up at any of them. “I’ll _do_ it.”

“That is perhaps the biggest bluff I’ve ever heard, and I’ve seen Bucky pretend he didn’t know how to speak English,” remarked Jarvis mildly.

Clint shot him a look that could probably strip paint off a wall while Sam just rolled his eyes and turned to rummage through his messenger bag.

“By the way, Buck,” he changed the subject, tossing a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ into his lap. “Speaking of bluffs and bullshit, Steve wanted me to give you this. Said your favorite person’s at it again.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath. He still wasn’t religiously keeping track of the news as much as he used to before everything went to shit, but he’d taken to at least checking the front page to see what new idiocy Pierce was concocting since the holidays. It wasn’t that he thought the Minister would change anything just on the basis of what Bucky had put in his letter, but he still held out hope that maybe more of his mom’s accomplishments wouldn’t be shit on quite so openly.

Apparently, that was just too much to ask.

Emblazoned on the front of the newspaper, which was stamped with today’s date, was a bold headline reading, “MINISTER SPEAKS – WIZARDS KILLED, MUGGLE FOUND GUILTY.”

Sighing, Bucky inquired of no one in particular, “On a scale of one to ten, how much am I going to want to throw up after reading this?”

“I’d give it a solid seven,” replied Sam soberly.

_Great. Just what I needed today._

The picture on the front page was enough to make him want to avoid the rest of the article. On one side were three bodies, hidden underneath sheets the way Muggle authorities usually did things at the scene of a crime. The caption said they’d been found on the outskirts of Bebington not far from Birkenhead. On the right, there was someone in handcuffs bearing a dazedly confused expression characteristic of those who had been placed under the influence of Veritaserum or Memory Charms—or so he remembered his mom describing once upon a time.

> _There was another tragedy in the Bebington community on Thursday, when authorities reported that three bodies were found outside of Bebington off the A41 halfway to Birkenhead. The individuals, who were later identified as John and Maria Holmes and their daughter Victoria, were a known magical family in the Bebington community. They were found with stab wounds to the chest from what authorities have confirmed to be Muggle hunting knives._
> 
> _John and Maria were active members of the Bebington community over the last two years since the open Muggle-magical neighborhood was founded. Both were employed as teachers of the joint school, Maria teaching History of the Magical World while John taught Muggle Lifestyles. Victoria, their daughter, attended the school and was in the first grade. Neighbors indicated that she had only recently begun showing signs of having powers, much to the satisfaction of her parents._
> 
> _This tragedy follows only weeks after five children were reported missing from the same area. All five had also recently come into their powers, and Ministry officials, Muggle authorities, and Aurors are still continuing the search. While there are still no witnesses or suspects in connection with the disappearances of these five children, Ministry officials are conducting an investigation to determine what possible motives Muggle neighbors in Bebington may have had with regards to the incident. While many magical families were removed from the Bebington community following the disappearances, the Holmeses decided to remain behind._
> 
> _An arrest was made in connection with the murder of the Holmes family, however, when one Yondu Udanta was found with the hunting knife that had allegedly been used in the crime. He was brought to the Ministry Saturday for questioning and admitted to killing the family of three. The Minister’s office has since released a statement that Udanta will not be turned over to Muggle authorities and will face punishment by ruling of the Wizengamot instead._
> 
> _In a press conference held Saturday night, Minister Pierce indicated that it was his decision to prosecute Udanta within magical jurisdiction rather than turning him over to Muggle authorities._
> 
> _“It’s time that we stop beating around the bush,” he declared. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Muggles are dangerous. To live among them is to tempt fate, especially when they are openly aware of the Wizarding community. This family did nothing wrong except live and work among Muggles. This man killed them not because they did anything that infringed on his rights, but because they existed as members of the magical community. This is not the first time this has happened, nor will it be the last. We_ need _reform. We_ need _to consider the safety of our people and our children. We need to be cautious and protect our own in a world where Muggles will turn to violence in order to subjugate us. The time has come for the Ministry to take action, and we shall do so immediately, starting with the sentencing of this killer.”_
> 
> _The Minister also indicated that further news would be available in the coming days to indicate just what would be done in the wake of this tragedy._
> 
> _Meanwhile, not everyone approves of the Minister’s methods. One witch, who preferred to remain anonymous, told the_ Prophet _as she stood with other protesters in the Atrium of the Ministry, “For someone who wants us to have full separation from Muggles, you’d think he’d be the first to send him right back to his own government to get thrown in jail.”_
> 
> _Another protester shared similar views, proclaiming, “He wouldn’t want one of us tried by Muggles, so why should we do it to them? It’s just not right.”_
> 
> _For more on crimes committed in the Bebington community – page 11_
> 
> _For the full transcript of Minister Pierce’s statement – page 12_

“Do you want this?” asked Bucky, holding up the paper and glancing over at Sam, who shook his head in the negative. “Awesome.”

Bucky plopped Winter down in Sam’s lap, hauled himself off the floor, walked over to the fireplace, and dumped the newspaper right on top of the flames. After a moment, they began to devour the parchment, pictures and words distorting grotesquely as the ink bubbled.

Satisfied, Bucky moved back to where he’d been sitting and ignored his friends’ uneasy gazes as he settled Winter back in his arms.

“Do you feel better?” Jarvis checked tentatively.

“Much.”

“Very good.”

In reality, they all knew that was a lie. Okay, _yes_ , it did feel a little better to burn that rag but the words were still imprinted on the insides of his eyelids. Every time he blinked, he saw sheets and bodies and a man who looked confused about where he was and what he’d done.

Was Yondu whatever-his-name-was really the one who killed those people? Even if he was, did he _deserve_ to be tossed in Azkaban with the worst the Wizarding world had to offer? He wouldn’t be able to see the dementors; all he would know was that he was cold and miserable and wanted to die for no reason whatsoever as every ounce of happiness was drained from him.

Would he _go_ to Azkaban? From the sound of it, Pierce probably wouldn’t think he was worthy of even that. Would the Minister pressure the Wizengamot into sentencing him to death? It had been done before, but not to Muggles. And how were they going to explain his disappearance to the Muggle government? Would they just let him become a missing person’s case like so many Muggle victims of evil witches and wizards?

The questions begot more questions until that was all Bucky had in his head. Pierce would find some way to talk himself out of whatever he decided to do; that was something he was exceptionally good at.

 _At least there are people who know he’s full of shit,_ he thought, remembering the two protesters who had commented at the end of the article. _Not everyone is like him. There are still people who believe what Mom said was right._

That, for now, would have to be enough.

 

***

 

It took almost a week after he woke up in the hospital wing for Bucky to remember anything about the fateful Care of Magical Creatures lesson. When he did, he immediately went to Professor May to tell her he needed to see Fury. She didn’t ask him why, just nodded her head and told him to follow her up to the third floor.

Ever since he’d been revealed as _not_ Yasha Smirnov, May had acted differently around him. Rumlow had become an even bigger douchebag and tended to make comments under his breath about _famous little babies being the favorite because mommy and daddy died_ , but in May’s class it was usually followed by him being asked (see: _told_ ) to come to the front of the room to demonstrate one spell or another. They were always _defensive_ spells, so it wasn’t like he was in any danger the way he would have been if Schmidt were the one asking, but there were plenty of occasions that had ended with Rumlow flying across the room in varying states of distress when he failed to block one of May’s spells effectively.

Every time, May just tutted and bemoaned, “It looks like _someone_ has been neglecting to practice.”

Bucky knew exactly what she was doing, as did most of his classmates. He couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed by the special treatment, though, not like he would have been a couple of years ago. There was just too much to laugh at when Rumlow imitated a plane without landing gears.

Meanwhile, Bucky had been given over a week to make up the work that he’d missed in Defense Against the Dark Arts while he was in the hospital wing. _So maybe he’s got a point about the whole favorites thing._

The password to Fury’s office this time was something to do with secret agents, which meant Professor Stark had been at it again, and Professor May rolled her eyes as they mounted the ascending spiral staircase. Fury was at his desk when they entered, glaring down at a sheet of parchment as if it had done him a personal disservice, but he glanced up when May told him Bucky was there.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Barnes?"

Clearing his throat, Bucky tried not to feel stupid as he began, “You, uh… You said to tell you if I remembered anything about last week?”

Fury nodded solemnly, waving a hand towards the chair in front of his desk. Taking the hint, Bucky lowered himself into the seat while biting the corner of his lip and wondered how he could phrase this without sounding paranoid.

“Well, it’s all still pretty foggy but…I’m _pretty_ sure I remember getting a look at the lobalug and its… Like, its eyes weren’t normal. If that makes sense.”

It seemed like the worst explanation ever, but Fury perked up in his chair and leaned forward so his elbows were resting on his desk. His visible eye was narrowed with his eyebrow drawn toward the center of his face. “What do you mean, they weren’t normal?” he demanded in a hard tone.

Swallowing, Bucky elaborated, “Well, I thought they were supposed to be black or blue but when I looked they were white? Like, not _clear_ white, but sort of—“

“Milky,” finished Fury, obviously not asking this time.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know if they stayed that way?”

 _How…did he know that?_ “No, sir. After Clint grabbed me, I remember looking back down and they were black.”

Somehow, Fury’s expression grew even more severe and Bucky thought maybe he’d said something wrong.

“I mean, I could have seen it wrong or something,” he backtracked quickly, rambling as he tried to figure out what the hell Fury was thinking. “I thought it was a glare on the water and maybe it was—I didn’t _think_ it was, but I guess it could’ve been. And everything’s still pretty fuzzy so maybe I was just imagining that they changed or someth—“

Fury raised a hand in silence and Bucky’s mouth shut automatically, his teeth clacking together in his haste. If he thought he was going to get rebuked, however, he was mercifully mistaken. Instead Fury didn’t say a word, just watching him closely as the gears in his head seemed to be turning. Bucky wanted to ask what was going on, whether Fury thought maybe he was imagining it (he _had_ been hallucinating for a few days, after all) or if it really happened, yet his concerns remained unvoiced as he let the man ponder in peace.

When Fury did speak after an immeasurable length of time, it wasn’t to answer any of Bucky’s unspoken questions.

“Do you remember who was around you when this happened?”

 _Uh…everyone?_ That was probably _not_ the most prudent use of his sarcasm, so Bucky cleared his throat and racked his brains to remember every detail that was clear enough to be interpreted.

“Um, Steve was my partner? He was standing behind me. And Clint was next to me with Sam. I don’t… I don’t really know about anyone else?”

Nodding, Fury paused briefly this time before exhaling sharply in what appeared to be frustration.

“Sir, if it’s okay…” _You’re almost seventeen, not eleven. Stand up for yourself for fucking once!_ “What do you think happened?”

“What makes you assume I’m thinking anything?” he inquired with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s not hard to tell, sir.”

For a second, Bucky thought he was going to be dismissed on the spot (or cursed depending on what mood he’d found the headmaster in today). Then Fury’s lips twitched and he sat back in his chair with obvious amusement.

“I think I’d rather not make any assumptions until we’ve got more to go on,” he eventually answered, much to Bucky’s disappointment. His expression had to be pretty dejected, but it had no effect on Fury. “I’d like to look into this a little deeper, so if you remember anything else, let me know.”

Sighing, Bucky muttered a quick, “Yes, sir,” before taking it as the dismissal it was and standing up. He was halfway to the door when he heard his name and turned back with a puzzled expression. Fury wasn’t one to change his mind, so he doubted he was going to get anything more important.

He was right. Fury simply ordered, “From now on, stay away from anything dangerous in class. And I don’t want you alone, not even in your dorm. Stick with at least two other students at all times. Understood?”

As soon as Bucky nodded in agreement, Fury looked back down at his desk in a clear sign that that was all he had to say. Then Professor May was opening the door and ushering him out onto the landing.

Bucky followed her down to dinner in a bit of a daze, his mind awhirl with what could possibly be going through Fury’s head. From the way he’d asked if Bucky remembered who had been near him at the time, he wondered if Fury was thinking someone in his class had made the lobalug attack him. He tossed that notion out the window as immediately as it presented itself, however. That would have been impossible: lobalugs only attacked when they felt threatened, so unless someone had been making faces behind his back—which he assumed Steve or Clint would have notified Fury of if it were the case—he didn’t see how anyone could have antagonized it like that without being noticed.

Regardless, Fury had _some_ idea even if he wasn’t ready to share it. Professor May didn’t leave his side once until he was situated in the Great Hall with his group of friends at the Gryffindor table; Fury had said not to go anywhere without some kind of escort.

Oh yeah, something hinky was going on, all right. Now it was just a matter of figuring out what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to take this opportunity to thank wolfofwinter, my unofficial occasional beta who catches the silly typos I miss. Let's give them a round of applause for being awesome! :)


	16. The Target

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a heads up: there is going to be a line with a very obvious cut off. There's nothing missing and it isn't a mistake! :)

> _Dear Bucky,_
> 
> _We got an owl from the school telling us about what happened in your class. I’m so sorry Mikhail and I weren’t able to make it back. We didn’t even receive it until yesterday. Unfortunately, things in Siberia took a turn for the worse and it delayed us another week past when we had hoped we would be going back to Moscow. (Finding an undiscovered dragon colony wasn’t exactly something we were expecting.) Your headmaster wrote again to say that you were doing better, and I hope that is the case. Please let me know if there is anything you need._
> 
> _We do have a bit of good news for you: after that trip, Mikhail and I were given a month off, so we’ll be able to come to your next game on the sixteenth! If you’d rather we don’t come, don’t be afraid to say so. We just want to be there to cheer for you._
> 
> _With love,_
> 
> _Tatiana_

Smiling down at the parchment, Bucky read over Tatiana’s letter one more time before folding it up and placing it back in the envelope. Sarah had mentioned while he was in the hospital wing that Fury had sent word to the Petrovs about what happened; they were still listed as his primary emergency contact, apparently, so they got to know first. It actually made him feel a bit guilty that he hadn’t even thought about sending them a letter to let them know he was doing better in the almost two weeks since he’d been released from the hospital wing. Perhaps it was that, in the back of his mind, he still saw himself as a burden they were forced to shoulder given the unfortunate circumstances they were left in. Bucky knew it wasn’t true—they obviously cared for him—but irrational thoughts were called _irrational_ for a reason.

“What’re you so happy about?” grumbled Clint as he plopped himself down at the table next to him. Saturday mornings were officially the worst day of the week, in his humble opinion, because there was no reason why they had to be up _so damn early for Apparition lessons when they had all fucking day_.

“Nothing,” shrugged Bucky, pocketing the letter and turning back to his oatmeal. His appetite had seen a slight recovery after Christmas, but it had gone right down the shitter with the time he spent in the hospital wing vomiting up his intestines (which he didn’t remember) and then eating only soft, light foods in the succeeding days (which he unfortunately _did_ ). He was trying to force at least a little something down, however, since Apparating on an empty stomach was even worse than doing it on a full one.

In their last lesson (Bucky had missed the one before it, but Karpov was suspiciously gracious about that), Rollins was the only person who managed to even slightly get Apparating right. Now, he’d still fucked up because the only part of him that appeared outside his hoop was two fingernails and a shoelace, but it was more than the rest of them had managed. Karpov had warned Bucky to take it easy during that lesson, which he’d been fuming over at the time despite the fact that he did tire easier than usual in the wake of his illness. He’d only made it through about half the lesson before he’d had to sit down in the middle of his hoop and just watch everyone else.

Today, he was determined to do at least a _little_ better than that, so he was trying to muster all the strength he had. If that meant choking down a few bites of oatmeal and a strip of bacon, well damn it, he’d fucking do it.

Clint didn’t bother saying anything else as he tucked into his own breakfast, which was so extensive that it made Bucky nauseous just from _looking_. He was beginning to wish that he’d waited for Sam and Jarvis to wake up before heading to breakfast, but he’d figured there were enough professors in the Great Hall that he wouldn’t need the escort Fury required him to have or the company. Thankfully, Steve and most of their other friends arrived shortly after and gave him something else to distract him from the gluttony taking place on his left (as well as a scolding for disobeying Fury, which he probably deserved).

“What the hell happened to your eye?” he demanded, forcing Steve’s face to the side to see a huge bruise over his right eye.

Grimacing, Steve swatted at his hands and explained, “Tony wanted to show me a new invention after dinner yesterday.”

“You seriously haven’t learned not to get too close to Tony’s inventions?” deadpanned Bucky in disbelief.

The nearer they got to graduation, the more determined Tony was to do something to go out with a bang. (Apparently he _hadn’t_ learned his lesson from Halloween in spite of all those apologies.) Three days earlier, he’d accosted Bucky in the corridor between classes to ask if he would be willing to donate his broom to the cause—which had gotten a very firm _hell fucking no_ in return. There was no getting out of it that easily, though, and Tony had stalked him right to his next class while explaining that he thought he could make magical fireworks lighter if they were propelled from broomsticks rather than needing to have a firing mechanism on the ground, meaning there was more room for extra explosives.

Bucky had calmly and politely informed him that (a) his broom was staying in the Quidditch equipment shed where it belonged, (b) he had too much work to make up to help Tony with his harebrained schemes, and (c) there was no fucking way in hell he was attaching explosives to his broom and flying around on it.

Apparently Steve hadn’t gotten the memo.

“I _tried_ ,” he very nearly whined, viciously biting into a strip of bacon. “He didn’t actually _tell_ me he was testing it. He was just all, _hey, Rogers, check this out_.”

“Man, you should know so much better than that,” Sam snorted over his orange juice.

“Which is precisely what I said when he told me,” sighed Peggy as she arrived at their table. She pecked a kiss to Steve’s cheek right under the bruise, but apparently it wasn’t far enough to keep Steve from wincing in pain. “Sorry, darling, but you should know to be more careful around Stark’s toys by now.”

“What exactly did it _do_?” inquired Bucky. The shiner looked more like Steve had gotten it in a fight than from one of Tony’s random projectiles.

Peggy’s face went flat as she explained, “Apparently Tony thought replacing our diplomas with tubes that either punched or shouted abuses at their recipients was an excellent idea.”

Blinking, Sam exclaimed, “How the _hell_ did he get from the shit he pulled at Halloween to _that_?”

Nat chose that moment to join them and Bucky saw her eyes flash in residual fury. She’d never _quite_ gotten over that incident—or, rather, the fallout that had ensued.

“Maybe he realized that being a sick fuck isn’t worth the time,” she shrugged coldly, spearing a sausage on her fork.

“Natasha, be nice,” Jarvis yawned while pouring himself some tea. “I believe his heart was in the right place.”

“Too bad his brain wasn’t.”

“Anyway,” interjected Bucky before _that_ could devolve any further, “next time maybe _check it out_ from across the hall or something, pal.”

“Or across the country might be the safer option,” amended Peggy with a smirk.

Steve snorted. “We’ll all need to be that far away to survive the nuclear explosion you’ll have if he fucks up graduation.”

“You know me so well,” she practically purred, leaning in to kiss him over his chuckles. If there was one woman who could be both tender and absolutely terrifying at the same time, it was Peggy goddamn Carter.

When it was time to go, the sixth years of their group rose to leave while Peggy and Wanda headed up to the library to study for their fast-approaching N.E.W.T.s. Pietro, who decided not to join them, had unsurprisingly taken to Tony and was probably busy helping him with whatever new monstrosity he was cooking up.

The frigid temperatures of January hadn’t abated even as they entered the second week of February, so most of them were heavily bundled up against the cold as they made their way down the path towards Hogsmeade. Even Bucky had to admit defeat and put on an extra sweater beneath the heavy winter coat Sarah had bought him when she saw how terribly lacking his leather jacket was. Of course, he’d also felt much colder since the lobalug incident anyway, but he tried not to think about that. Everything had been resolved without a hitch, and Madam Bishop kept telling him that there would be no lasting damage when he’d gone back for follow-ups, so now he just had to make himself believe it.

Nat cited Russia as her reason for calling them all a bunch of babies and wandering around in what essentially amounted to a hoodie and jeans, but none of them took it to heart. Knowing her, she’d don a tank top and go for a dip in the Black Lake in this weather if they had anything to say about her internal temperature gauge. She was extraordinarily like Steve that way.

Karpov was waiting for them as always when they arrived at the Three Broomsticks, dressed impeccably in a bespoke suit and absolutely devoid of any emotion the way they’d all grown so accustomed to. The hoops were already set out on the floor, and they all divested themselves of their puffy jackets before taking their normal spots around the room. It wasn’t particularly warm in the pub, especially with the door opening and closing every now and again, but they all figured wearing fewer articles of clothing meant less stuff to worry about getting from one place to another.

According to Karpov, that made no difference whatsoever, but fuck him—they could delude themselves if they bloody well wanted.

They went through the usual bullshit at the start—the three Ds, what their goal for the day was, blah blah blah—and then Karpov set them loose to once again try to get themselves from inside their hoop to outside it. Clint had gotten clever once or twice in the last lesson and, after making sure no one was looking, just stepped to the left and _claimed_ he’d Apparated, but Karpov hadn’t been amused. Unlike most of their professors, who tolerated Clint’s shenanigans with a mixture of exasperation and grudging amusement, Karpov had told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t take this seriously he could feel free to go back up to Hogwarts and pay to take these lessons over again in the summer. Clint had gotten back to work at that point while the rest of them glared daggers at the Undersecretary.

No one tried to pull any fast ones today. Rollins, with his bandaged fingers, looked like he was ready to throw his hoop out the window when his first attempt wasn’t successful. Bucky saw Rumlow appeared to be of the same mind, although given that he still wasn’t able to do more than a basic spell nonverbally, Bucky figured concentration that didn’t involve torture and jeering just wasn’t his forte.

Sighing, Bucky looked down at his hoop before shifting his eyes over to the spot he was supposed to be Apparating to. There was nothing special about it, which was probably why this was so difficult. If they said to Apparate to London or Brooklyn or even outside the damn pub, he thought that would probably be much easier. There was something to visualize with those places, but this was just…a floor.

_That just means you’ve got to look closer. Come on, you can do this._

While everyone else around him was spinning and falling and cursing up a storm, Bucky just stood there staring at the floor for so long he thought his eyeballs were going numb. The plank he wanted to land on was grey from age, a shade lighter than the ones surrounding it; Bucky thought maybe a table or chair had been scooted along it to fade the color so much. There were natural swirls in the wood, one looking like the stereotypical Muggle version of a witch with a tall hat and long nose. All along the length of it, there were scratches, probably from the chair he was positive usually sat in this spot. Unlike some of the other boards, this one was held down by screws instead of nails—Phillips heads. There were four, one in each corner, and a tiny dip in the wood right in the middle where it probably bore most of the weight without a support underneath.

With the image burned into his retinas, Bucky closed his eyes and was still able to see the outline on the backs of his eyelids. So he focused on it and he thought about how much he just wanted to Apparate to that damn spot and get this over with because he was tired of these lessons and didn’t much care for Apparating but _still_ really wanted to get it right instead of flailing around like an idiot the way he had the last two lessons—

And he turned—

He felt like his chest was crushed and couldn’t draw breath for a moment before the sensation subsided.

When he opened his eyes, though, he didn’t notice a difference. He prepared to look down and start visualizing the spot again but, as his eyes lowered to the floor, they widened to see that his feet were no longer inside his hoop.

He was standing right where he wanted to be, and everyone else in the room was staring at him with their mouths hanging open—including Karpov.

_Well. Son of a bitch._

There was silence for a minute and then most of his classmates started applauding and whooping—except Rumlow, who looked like he’d just eaten a snail. Steve slapped him on the back with an amazed expression and exclaimed, “How the hell did you do that?!”

“A lot of staring,” he mumbled in response, feeling his face heat up under the scrutiny of so many eyes. He wasn’t quite sure if he was making an observation or answering Steve’s question.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done,” announced Karpov.

Bucky had never thought he’d be grateful to that man a day in his life, but he had to admit that he was glad everyone returned their attention to their instructor at that moment.

“Once everyone has reached the point where you can Apparate this short distance, we will practice going further,” he continued, once again doing that pacing thing Phillips would approve of. “Back to work. Mr. Barnes, you may take a moment before practicing that again.”

That, of course, meant half the room was just _pretending_ to be working on their form while actually trying to watch Bucky to see how he was doing it instead.

“Better get it right a second time, Yasha,” teased Nat with a sarcastic little smirk. Bucky shot her a filthy look and just stepped back into his hoop.

Luckily, he got it right the second _and_ third times, _thank you very much_.

 

***

 

“Bucky Beaver, you are just no fun,” sighed Tony as they made their way towards the Quidditch equipment shed.

Bucky snorted. “Which part makes me no fun: the part where I said I didn’t want to blow myself up trying your invention out or the part where I said I didn’t want to get banned from Quidditch until graduation by fucking up the match with your invention?”

“It would just be a _test_ ,” insisted Tony with a groan of impatience. “You could set them off during the practice laps without affecting the game at _all_.”

“Tony, I’m just gonna say this one more time: _no_.”

“You’re killing my dreams here, cosmonaut.”

“I’ve never had anyone compliment me so highly,” preened Bucky, laughing when Tony extended his leg to trip him up.

By the time they got to the shed, the door was already open and Bucky knew he was probably late for practice. Clint was going to have a cow, but all he had to do was say Tony had held him up and all would be forgiven. Well, for _him_ anyway—Clint’s vendetta would be against Tony if they lost to Ravenclaw.

Bucky jogged a few steps ahead of Tony and through the door only to run smack into—“Wanda?”

Whirling around, Wanda gaped at him as though she never would have expected him to be in a _Quidditch_ shed when he was on a _Quidditch team_. If anyone was out of place here, it was _her_ —she wasn’t on any team and had mentioned before that she had no particular liking of the sport but came to the games to cheer on their friends and Pietro, who had made the Slytherin team.

“Oh. Hi, Bucky,” she greeted him, her voice slightly flatter than usual. Was it the poor lighting in the shed, or did her eyes look a little glazed over? He tried to get a better look but her bangs fell in front of her face, obscuring her eyes from view.

“Hey,” he responded slowly, making an aborted gesture around the room. “What are you doing in here?”

A pause. “Pietro sent me to make sure his broom was in here. He couldn’t remember if he took it back to his dormitory with him.”

“Why didn’t he just come down here himself?” _It’s not like it’s that far from the castle…_

“He had an essay to write for Arithmancy.”

Nodding, Bucky murmured, “Okay… Well, looks like his broom is over with the other Slytherins’.” He pointed to the green stand on the far wall, and Wanda turned in that direction before looking back at him with a relieved smile.

“You’re right. Thanks.”

“Sure.” Wanda moved to leave when he added, “Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she muttered quietly, not pausing in her stride as she continued straight out the door without a backwards glance.

_That…was weird._

“Oooookay, spooky chick is—wouldn’t you know it?—spooky,” remarked Tony, apparently in agreement with him.

“She’s not normally like that,” observed Bucky, moving over to the yellow stand to grab his Nimbus. “And why do you call her _spooky chick_?”

Tony pretended to think about that as Bucky exited the shed and the former accompanied him towards the pitch. “Well, let’s think about that. She dresses like a nineties punk-goth hybrid, doesn’t talk to anyone but her brother, and looks like she could probably move things with her mind if she got angry. Yeah, you’re right, nothing spooky about that at all.”

“Tony, has anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?”

“Frequently, what’s your point?”

Bucky didn’t bother pursuing that line of conversation. There were some things that were probably better left unsaid. Besides, he was right: he _was_ late to practice and as soon as he entered the pitch, Clint was shouting at him to get his ass in the air. Shooting Tony a quick salute, Bucky mounted his broom and took off.

There was something wrong, though; he could feel it the second his feet left the ground. It was almost like his broom was pulling to the right for some reason. It wasn’t _bad_ like he couldn’t steer it or anything, but it was definitely noticeable and threw him off for most of their practice.

After his third missed Bludger, Clint flew over and demanded, “What the hell’s up with you today?”

“Nothing, just… I think something’s up with my broom,” Bucky explained with a frown. “It’s listing to the right.”

“How bad is it?” was Clint’s immediate response as he floated a bit to the side to face Bucky head on. “I see what you mean.”

“It’s not too bad, I can compensate.”

“Yeah, that’s been going _so_ well.”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky argued, “It’s just my first time with it this way, that’s all. I’ll get it looked at.”

“With what time, man?” inquired Clint with raised eyebrows. “The game’s tomorrow. There’s no time to get it fixed and the school brooms are fucking _slow_.”

“I know, I know,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll just deal with it for the game and get it repaired after, okay?”

Clint narrowed his eyes in obvious disapproval but didn’t argue as he flew off to direct them into the next drill.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Bucky attempted to get his head back into their practice session to no avail. All he could think about was the fact that his _parents_ got him this broom and he’d had it since he was a first year and what would happen if it wasn’t something that could be fixed what if he had to let someone take it apart or even get rid of it if there was nothing they could do—

_Just stop. Focus on the game right now. Think about that later._

Bucky took a deep breath and tried to calm his heart rate as he watched the Chasers shooting from one end of the pitch to the other. Odds were that it was just something that needed adjusting; his broom was over five years old now, so it wasn’t entirely unexpected that it might need some maintenance. He could manage to get through one game with it like this.

 

***

 

Bucky couldn’t remember playing a more brutal game of Quidditch than their match against Ravenclaw. Like Clint had warned them before Christmas, the Ravenclaw Chasers were on point; Bucky and Dum Dum were both beyond aggravated within the first ten minutes because they just moved too fast to hit them with Bludgers. Rollins and Dernier, the Ravenclaw Beaters, didn’t appear to have that problem and had landed a number of hits on the Hufflepuff Chasers at every turn. Every time Bucky aimed for one of the members of the other team, he let the Bludger fly only to see they had moved out of the projectile’s trajectory by the time he was able to do that much. His broom was still giving him issues (call him crazy for hoping that the problem might sort itself out overnight), but it wasn’t impacting his performance _that_ badly. At first that was exactly what he’d thought was happening, but then his fellow Hufflepuffs began complaining of the same thing: the Ravenclaws were just _too damn fast_.

Over an hour in, the score was one hundred to sixty in Ravenclaw’s favor, much to the delight of the blue-and-bronze clad spectators.

“For fuck’s sake!” screamed Clint when Dum Dum missed Falsworth for the fifth time. “Would you fucking _hit him_?!”

“Yeah, I’d like to see you try,” Dugan immediately rebutted, his usual humor having evaporated long ago.

Bucky jumped to his defense automatically. “They’re too fast, Clint. They’re dodging everything we send at ‘em.”

“Then send something else,” their captain grumbled, eyes searching through the pitch feverishly.

“Maybe you should just focus on finding that Snitch and we won’t have to worry about it,” snarked Dum Dum. It was a sign of just how frustrated Clint was that he took off without another word instead of flipping him the bird the way he normally would have.

Something had to give. The Chasers on the opposing team weren’t so much going for impeccable _strategy_ as they were _speed_ , which was surprising given what house they were talking about. Speed, however, could be combated with strategy; they just needed to think of the right one.

Squinting around the field, Bucky took in everything he could about the other members of the team. Karen Page could be Clint’s problem since she was Seeker. Pinky, the Keeper, had missed every goal the Hufflepuffs got near him and Bucky was beginning to suspect that he wasn’t an excellent Keeper as much as he was _lucky_ that the Quaffle didn’t come close enough for him to worry about it most of the time. They could work with that. Dernier and Rollins were vicious—the former less maliciously so—and spent their time surfing through the players to get at the Bludgers rather than covering their Chasers. That, also, was something they could work with.

“Okay, new plan,” Bucky called over to Dugan when the Ravenclaws made the score one hundred ten to sixty.

“What’cha got, Sarge?”

Bucky didn’t even bother rolling his eyes at the nickname, which had apparently become commonplace among his other team members since he was Clint’s right hand man on the pitch—his sergeant.

“We split up. Their Beaters are good, but they’re hogging the Bludgers. I’m gonna help Rogue block the goalposts to throw off their shots. _You_ need to stick with the Chasers and run blocker—if you can’t get at a Bludger, at least you can keep them from getting at the others.”

Dum Dum was already in motion, and Bucky wheeled his broom around before launching towards the Hufflepuff goalposts. Rogue had been doing well, but with the Chasers moving so fast, they’d gotten just as many shots past her as she’d caught. She seemed to understand what he was doing as soon as he was within range and shot him a grateful smile before they both turned their attention back to the pitch.

For the most part, the plan was a success: with Bucky in the way, the Chasers were too busy dodging him to aim accurately, and their hesitation gave Rogue just enough of an edge to catch every Quaffle they sent her way. Dum Dum was also making progress, batting the Bludgers out of the way of their Chasers instead of trying to grab one to send at the Ravenclaws. After another half hour, they managed to narrow the gap to a much more tolerable margin. If they kept this up, as long as Page didn’t catch the Snitch, they should be in good shape.

So, of course, the Ravenclaws changed their strategy.

Chasers weren’t Bludgers, so there was nothing Dum Dum could do when Erik Lehnsherr practically tackled Morita mid-pass. The former intercepted the Quaffle while the latter tried to grab it out of his hands only to get a Bludger to his forearm—Bucky could hear the snap of breaking bones over the roar of the crowds. Morita listed sideways on his broom, and Phillips called a time-out long enough to get him to the ground and off the pitch.

_Great. Down a Chaser._

Taking a leaf out of Lehnsherr’s book regardless of the penalty shot it afforded the Hufflepuff team, Falsworth _accidentally_ got in the way of Logan when he was about to take a shot and distracted him so he couldn’t see Rollins and Dernier _both_ shooting Bludgers in his direction. Bucky shouted in fury as they made contact—one in the back and the other in the chest—and then Logan was out of the game.

With two Chasers out and only Sam and Dum Dum fully in play, it was easy for the Ravenclaws to get the Quaffle and move back down in Bucky and Rogue’s direction.

As soon as they were in range, Bucky urged his broom forward—but it wouldn’t move.

“ _Come on_!” he shouted, tugging his broomstick to the side. It jerked a bit, like a balloon that was running out of air as it sailed along, before propelling him steadily forward.

Lehnsherr pulled up short and moved to make the shot with Bucky rocketing right at him, ignoring him even as Bucky was just about to make contact—

Before his broom veered right and rolled him over.

Bucky just barely managed to grasp the end tightly enough not to fall, but he lost his seat right as the whistle blew indicating that Ravenclaw had scored.

“Shit, come on,” he mumbled under his breath, swinging a leg up and catching his ankle on the broom. Arms straining from the effort, he pulled himself ba

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everything was fuzzy and white, but it was so bright it hurt his head. His eyes closed of their own accord, a whimper coming from somewhere nearby.

“Bucky? Can you hear me?”

_Sarah?_

“Can you try to open your eyes for me?”

Oh, the whimpering was coming from _him_. His eyelids felt like they were made of cement as he struggled to push them open again—it was too hard—he was _so tired…_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There was something missing. He could feel it as his eyes darted blearily around…wherever he was.

“Bucky?”

He didn’t answer, trying to find—where were…?

Something popped up in front of him, obscuring the brilliant white all around, but he couldn’t focus on it. Was that…?

No, that was—“Sarah?”

“Hey,” she breathed. Her face was blurry, so he couldn’t tell if she was smiling or not. Sarah should always be smiling, though. She deserved that.

But she wasn’t what was missing. She reminded him of what _was_ , though.

“W-where’s Mom ‘n Dad?” he whispered. Or he thought he did—he couldn’t hear so well and there was something heavy pressed up against his ears.

No one said anything. He could feel his breathing speeding up. Why wasn’t anyone saying anything—where were they—

“Could—couldn’t they come?”

“Of course they did, sweetie,” Sarah eventually whispered.

It was dark—he couldn’t see her face anymore.

Oh, his eyes were closed. He should— But it was so _bright_ when they were open…

“Then where…?”

“Try to get some sleep. They… They’ll be here. When you wake up.”

He could take a deep breath—it _hurt_ —he could breathe now. They’d be there—they’d come—

“M’kay.”

Something touched his cheek—his head was so _heavy_ when he tried to turn toward it and he couldn’t move why couldn’t he move but that was okay they were _coming_ —

“Will… Will you stay? Till they… Till they come?”

Did he say that out loud? He thought he said that out loud but he couldn’t _hear_ —

“I’ll always be here, sweetheart. Go to sleep.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“—cond time in a month, Fury.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“What the hell is going on? The boy is competent. There is no reason for him to be here so frequently.”

“I’m looking into it, Mr. Petrov. His team captain said he was having trouble with his broom on Friday. Professor Stark is analyzing it.”

“Well, look harder. I don’t want the next letter I get from you to come with a pine bo—“

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“—e right thing?”

“You did what you could. That would not have been the time to remind him.”

“Yeah, but what happens if he wakes up and asks where they are again? I should never have said they were here, Tatiana. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”

“That was what he needed to hear at the time. You saw it brought him comfort, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you deny him that?”

“I gue—“

 

***

 

The first thing that occurred to Bucky was that he couldn’t move.

The second thing that occurred to him was that when he tried, all he felt was excruciating pain.

“Shh, it’s all right,” someone soothed him when he cried out. Fingers gently stroked his hair and repeated the same thing over and over until he clawed his way to full consciousness.

It was apparently sometime during the night; the only lights around him were from lamps on the bedside tables all throughout the hospital wing. Most of them were dimmed through the curtain that had been drawn around his own bed, so it wasn’t too bright for him to blink his eyes back into focus.

_Wait…_

“Why am I here?” he demanded weakly, his throat dry and aching around every syllable. He didn’t realize it was Tatiana sitting on the edge of his bed until he heard her thick Russian accent.

“You were hurt during the match,” she explained quietly, continuing to pet his head in a manner that made him feel calmer despite his confusion.

“The…the match?” He racked his brains for much longer than was probably normal before it came to him: _the game against Ravenclaw._ “I… I got hurt? I don’t…”

“You probably won’t remember it,” she told him. “That one boy with the nasty smile hit you in the head with a Bludger. You fell.”

_Rollins. Had to be Rollins._

Bucky’s thoughts were moving slower than usual, and he felt almost as murky as he had when he’d woken up after the lobalug incident. He remembered playing the game, though, which was a step in the right direction. Well, he didn’t think he remembered the _whole_ game so much as bits and pieces. He recalled his frustration at not being able to hit any of the Ravenclaw Chasers—then he remembered helping Rogue block the goalposts—then…nothing. All of those memories, though, were more _emotional_ than anything else; he had only vague images in his mind’s eye to work with while the rest he recalled purely because he remembered how he felt.

So Rollins must have knocked him out of the air—getting hit in the head explained why everything felt so fuzzy and heavy and why he could feel a thick bandage wrapped around his head. That _didn’t_ clarify…

“Why can’t I move?” he whispered, trying once again to sit up only to whimper when pain shot through his limbs.

Tatiana immediately pressed a palm to his chest, not pushing but simply motioning that he should stay where he was. For the first time, he caught a sliver of something grief-stricken in her voice as she explained, “When you fell, you broke your back.”

Bucky felt his eyes blow wide. _Don’t people_ die _from breaking their backs?!_

Sensing his poorly concealed panic, Tatiana shook her head and continued, “The nurse has done what she can to fix it, but the new bone will need time not to be so sensitive.”

“B-b-but I’ll be okay?”

“You’ll be fine.”

“And…I’ll… I can walk ‘n stuff?”

Tatiana nodded with a comfortingly genuine smile. “Everything will be the same as always. Don’t worry—you are in good hands.”

“And they’ll be better now that we know what the hell happened,” grumbled a familiar voice. A moment later, Sarah came around the screen looking more exhausted than he’d ever seen her. Following in her wake were Mikhail and, surprisingly, Fury. No matter how old Bucky got, he would never find it any less daunting when that one eye gave him a head-to-toe once-over like Fury could see secrets hiding there that Bucky himself couldn’t fathom.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Barnes?” the headmaster inquired. He alone remained standing as Mikhail took a seat in the chair beside Bucky’s bed and Sarah came over to sit on the mattress opposite Tatiana.

“Everything hurts and I feel like I’m dying,” he muttered, wincing when he forgot not to restlessly shift under Fury’s stern gaze.

Sarah laughed, mildly hysterical as it sounded.

Even Fury managed a smirk at that, but it quickly melted away as he remarked, “Well, I think I have something that will help you feel a little better. Professor Stark managed to fix your broom.”

There were so many things they could focus on that were way more important than his broom: the fact that Rollins was a douchebag, the fact that he’d broken his fucking back, the fact that he was in the hospital wing for the third time this year—the second time in as many months. But in spite of all that, Bucky couldn’t help feeling a knot in his chest loosen to know that his broom was going to be okay.

“What was wrong with it?” he inquired, making a mental note to thank Stark when he got out of here.

“A very clever jinx,” replied Fury tonelessly. “Apparently someone figured out a way to go around the Anti-Jinx spells on that broom. Took some time to fully take effect, though. It probably would’ve thrown you off if you’d lasted any longer.”

Blinking, Bucky almost shook his head before he remembered that _really_ wasn’t the best idea right now. How the hell could someone jinx his broom? There were heavy duty spells that manufacturers used to make sure that didn’t happen purely to avoid cheating in the professional leagues, but also for the safety of the rider in recreational brooms as well. No one had ever been known to break one of those spells, especially since the manufacturers didn’t release which ones they actually used for that exact reason.

It took a minute or two before he recognized that that probably wasn’t the _real_ reason he should be feeling his stomach roiling.

“W-why would someone jinx my broom?” he wondered softly with a frown of bemusement. “Ravenclaw was winning anyway.”

“It’s probably got less to do with the game and more to do with…other things,” observed Sarah delicately. There was a dent between her eyebrows that wasn’t usually there unless she was worried about him or Steve, and it looked like it had taken up permanent residence on her face with how steady it was.

_What other things? I’ve stayed away from all the bullshit with the Ministry—what more do people want?_

“But, how—“

Fury cut him off before he could decide how he wanted to finish that question, informing him, “I’m hoping we’ll be able to answer that soon enough. We’ve managed to figure out who cast the spell. Professor Erskine is bringing them to my office so I can find out what the hell’s going on.”

_I’d bet ten Galleons on Rumlow, guaranteed._

“Who was it?”

“Wanda Maximoff,” he replied without a trace of emotion.

Bucky felt like the entire world tilted to the side and turned upside down in the time it took him to say those two words. Wanda? Wanda was one of the nicest people he’d ever met! Yeah, she was shy and could be a bit aloof at times, but she was a good person and genuinely cared about Bucky as well as the rest of their friends. There was _no way_ she could—

_But she was in the equipment shed right before my broom started screwing up,_ he remembered suddenly. He’d been so focused on the game that he’d forgotten, but now the memory played back with utter clarity: Wanda, acting weird, saying she was there to check on Pietro’s broom while being nowhere _near_ the Slytherin side.

_Still, it… It couldn’t be her… Why would she want to hurt me?_

While he was busy having a moment of crisis, Fury had begun informing him, “When I announced that someone had tampered with the Hufflepuff team’s brooms before the game, Tony Stark came forward and said he was with you when you found Maximoff alone with the Quidditch equipment.”

“But she _wouldn’t_ —“

“Unless you’ve got another explanation for it, I’m going to have to go with this lead,” interjected Fury with a hard expression.

_Maybe there is…_

“She… She was acting funny,” he blurted out, shouting in pain as he struggled to sit up once again. Tatiana shushed him as she and Sarah guided him back down onto the pillow, and Madam Bishop was coming around the curtain to see what was happening—it was getting pretty cramped back here. Bucky didn’t let that deter him, though, and pushed on, “Tony doesn’t really know her anyway, but she was acting all… Like, she wasn’t herself. I can’t explain it, but… She just… It was like she wasn’t all there or—“

“Or was kind of glazed over?” Fury completed his sentence with narrowed eyes, and Bucky was forcibly reminded of the day they’d spoken in his office about the lobalug by how he appeared to know exactly what was going on before Bucky could get the words out.

“Y-yeah,” he confirmed confusedly. “I… I didn’t get a good look, but her eyes were kinda like that and she was…she was sorta making up stupid excuses for being there? I just—she _wouldn’t do that_ , Professor, _please_ believe me.”

Fury didn’t say another word, nor did their audience of guardians and one put out nurse. His eye was focused on Bucky, which was even more unnerving than usual, but he refused to flinch or look away. If Fury was attempting to figure out if he was lying to protect Wanda, he didn’t want to give the headmaster any reason to think he was doing any less than telling the absolute truth. Wanda was his _friend_ —he couldn’t believe for one _second_ that she would purposely try to hurt him for any reason, and he would argue till he was blue in the face through the pain in his back and the fuzziness at the edges of his thoughts to defend his friend.

So he waited. They stared at each other steadily until, unexpectedly, Mikhail was the one to break the silence.

“If this girl was under the Imperius Curse, anyone could have cast it,” he observed.

_The Imperius Curse?_

That wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting from this conversation. Of course everyone knew about the three Unforgivable Curses: the Imperius Curse, the Cruciatus Curse, and the Killing Curse. Using any one of them meant you were going to Azkaban for the rest of your life; if you were _lucky_ , you didn’t get a Dementor’s Kiss out of the deal. Those were three spells they didn’t even teach at Durmstrang (for obvious reasons), although they were supposed to learn the theory behind them all at some point. Schmidt had never gotten to it, though, at least not before the school was closed and he vanished into thin air.

“If that’s the case, hopefully she’ll be able to identify who might have done it,” mused Fury. “That would be twice that this has happened.”

It took a moment for Bucky to realize what he was talking about before he blurted out, “The lobalug?”

Nodding, Fury confirmed, “You said its eyes were milky, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty typical of someone—or some _thing_ —under the influence of the Imperius Curse. They take a backseat, get all glazed over like that, and do whatever the person controlling them wants.”

“B-but… But the spell, it’s an Unfo—“

“Which whoever’s doing this damn well knows,” grunted Fury, taking a step backward. “For the time being, I want you to stay here. From the sound of things, it’ll be a few days until you can get back on your feet anyway. I want as many people here with him as possible, got that?”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Tatiana affirmed more fiercely than Bucky had ever heard her speak.

“Oh, and Barnes?” Fury waited until he had Bucky’s undivided attention before dryly ordering, “No more going around what I said. If you haven’t got people with you, you don’t go anywhere. Do I make myself clear?”

Grimacing, Bucky mumbled a halfhearted, “Yessir.”

With a final nod, Fury swept out of the hospital wing, presumably to find Professor Erskine and Wanda and figure out what the fuck was happening.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s head was reeling, and it wasn’t from the fall. Someone wanted him dead—they’d tried _twice_ now—and they were desperate enough to use Unforgivable Curses to do it.

_Amazing. After everything that’s happened, I_ still _can’t catch a fucking break._

So, when Madam Bishop indicated that he needed to get rest and brought him a Sleeping Draught, Bucky accepted it gladly to temporarily escape the unmitigated mess that was his life.


	17. Déjà Vu

It wasn’t that Bucky didn’t appreciate what everyone was doing for him. Although there were still plenty of mornings where he woke up feeling like an imposter who had stolen the life of a deceased boy—although those mornings generally outnumbered the others, he didn’t _want_ to die. Even if he didn’t care about himself, he couldn’t do that to the people he was slowly coming to realize still loved him in spite of the fact that he was oftentimes a shadow of who he used to be. It was amazing to think of how that list had grown to encompass his old family at Hogwarts and the new family he’d unconsciously made at Durmstrang. Regardless of how he felt in the early hours of the morning before the rest of his roommates or Winter woke up, regardless of how empty his chest was or how his heart ached when it remembered the past—regardless of all that, he got up and did his best to carry on because the people he would leave behind if something happened to him would be devastated to lose him.

He _knew_ that, and he was more grateful for it than words could describe.

That didn’t mean, however, that he wasn’t beginning to feel smothered by the constant attention being rained down on him in an attempt to make sure some unknown asshole didn’t succeed in killing him.

Bucky had spent over a week in the hospital wing following the Quidditch game. For three days after his conversation with Fury, he still hadn’t been able to move without subjecting himself to agonizing pain. It took another two days after that for him to be able to walk without help, the twinges still shooting out from his spine to all of his limbs whenever he exerted any effort to increase his momentum to more than a snail’s pace. Magic had kept him from becoming paralyzed, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be a hefty recovery time he had to tolerate. By the time Madam Bishop was satisfied that he would be all right to leave the hospital wing, the majority of Bucky’s pain had subsided and he was capable of functioning on his own again, but he was still in frequent discomfort.

His extended convalescence had allowed Fury enough time to come up with a plan for his safety until they figured out what the hell was going on. Apparently Mikhail had been correct: Wanda _had_ been under the influence of the Imperius Curse, although she had no memory of who could possibly have cast it. Of all his friends, she was the only one who hadn’t come to visit him while he was injured, and Bucky had a feeling that when he _did_ get out, she would probably avoid him. He knew it wasn’t her fault; they all did. The problem was that they had no idea whose it _was_ , which meant that everyone in the school was suspect with the exception of Bucky’s vetted companions: Steve, Sam, Clint, T’Challa, Jarvis, Nat, Skye, and Pietro. Wanda had been left off the list for obvious reasons, and the others became Bucky’s unofficial bodyguards, accompanying him pretty much everywhere except the bathroom. After that, the days had fallen into a tedious routine.

When Bucky woke up in the morning, his three roommates would escort him to breakfast and sit together with their other friends at the same table. They shooed off anyone who tried to sit too close before accompanying him to their first class as a group.

When the lesson ended, his group would flank him and their professor would usher them to the next class.

At the end of the day, their last professor and all of his friends would lead the way back down to the Great Hall for dinner.

He didn’t leave the castle unless it was for Care of Magical Creatures, Herbology, or Apparition lessons. Three professors and all of his friends accompanied him to the lattermost.

He didn’t go to the Quidditch pitch and didn’t get on his broom. Angie Martinelli took over as the second Hufflepuff Beater.

He didn’t dally in the corridors. He got where he was going and stayed there.

He reported to Fury anytime he blew his nose or wiped his ass.

Okay, so the last one was an exaggeration, but the fact remained that he was under constant surveillance every hour of the day and night. Was he appreciative of the lengths his classmates and friends and professors were going to in order to keep him safe? Of course he was. Was he also feeling like he was living in a glass tank with eyes on him at all times the way he’d forgotten they had been during his mother’s campaign an eternity ago? Hell yes.

That was why his new favorite haunt was the lavatory in the Hufflepuff dormitories. It was the one place he could go where no one would follow him, so he spent an inordinate amount of time every day claiming he needed to take a shower or a dump or whatever he had to so he could get some personal, private time.

Well, not _really_ private since he always brought Winter with him. The most unfortunate part of his stay in the hospital wing was that Madam Bishop had forbidden any of his friends to bring his cat with them to see him, citing her tendency to climb all over Bucky in search of (or in an attempt to provide) affection, which might potentially damage him further. That meant over a week before he was able to see her, and the second she caught a whiff of his scent the first night he was allowed back in the dormitory, she’d clung to him so tight the claws had come out to make sure no one could take her human away again. _Guilty_ wasn’t even the word to describe how terrible Bucky felt about that, and he’d been spoiling her rotten (more than usual) ever since.

So, during his forays into the bathroom, he brought her and a few toys with him. He was well aware of the fact that he wasn’t fooling anyone and his friends knew exactly what was going on, but no one said a word about it. They allowed him the time he desperately needed to decompress every day without interruption, though some of the stares he got from the other members of his house looking to use the lavatory while he was playing with Winter on the floor were downright _hilarious_.

Fortunately, there were some days when he was able to get an hour or so all to himself without interruptions, and today was one of them.

_Wingardium Leviosa!_

Laughing, he waved his wand to make Winter’s monkey bounce up and down in front of her as she tried to bat at it with her paws.

“Come on, Win, get ‘im!”

Winter growled and sank back on her hind legs, eyes following the monkey’s every move before she pounced. Bucky twitched the monkey to the side so she caught nothing but air, and she wheeled around toward her prey immediately to try again. He let her come close a few times before making the stuffed animal jump out of her way, eventually letting her knock it out of the air to tackle it to the floor.

“You got him!” he cheered for her, reaching over to ruffle her fur. Winter preened under the attention for a minute then crawled up into his lap, monkey in tow.

As soon as she started attacking his face with licks, Bucky chuckled, “Oh, I get victory kisses? Thank you, I like victory kisses.”

Purring in agreement, Winter gave him a few more for good measure before wrapping a leg around her monkey and shoving her face into his jaw. Bucky hugged both arms around her and sighed, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. Moments like this, where he didn’t have a million thoughts buzzing through his mind about whether Winter was safe somewhere or Sarah was doing okay or the Petrovs were still alive and well in Moscow—moments where he could just breathe without having to be Bucky or Yasha or everything and nothing at all—these were the moments where he found peace.

“Hey, asshat, get out here!”

_Easy come, easy go._

Bucky grunted as he pushed himself up the wall to his feet, swaying slightly. So he wasn’t _entirely_ better after breaking his back, but he was functional and that was what mattered. If his joints got sore a little easier and his muscles ached a little more than usual, that was apparently to be expected. Madam Bishop assured him all those symptoms would pass in time so long as he stayed away from more shit that would fuck with him.

 _Like it’s_ my _fault._

When he exited the bathroom, Clint was standing right outside the door with his arms folded across his chest and an impatient expression. During Bucky’s Alone Time, his friends respected his boundaries and didn’t come into the bathroom unless they really needed to go; instead they waited for him to come out or, in Clint’s case, shouted abuses until he made an appearance.

“What?” he sighed, poking Winter’s nose and smiling when she nibbled on his finger.

“ _What_? It’s dinnertime, let’s go,” grunted Clint. He didn’t bother to wait for Bucky’s response before leading the way back to their dormitory to collect Jarvis and Sam.

That was another inconvenient part of the whole Murder Watch 2013 campaign: while he was tired of having eyes on his every move, he knew that he was causing his friends to avoid doing things they normally would as well because they thought they needed to be with him all the time. None of them said a word about it, whether to reassure him or complain, but he knew it had to be irritating at times. It certainly was to him.

“It’s more important to make sure you’re safe,” Steve had huffed the one time he’d bothered to bring it up. “Believe me, they wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t exactly where they wanted to be.”

“And what about you?” Bucky had inquired, noticing Steve wasn’t including himself in that statement.

He’d gotten a clap on the shoulder and a genuine, heartfelt smile as Steve shrugged, “I’m with you till the end of the line.”

They didn’t talk about it again after that.

Once they met up with Jarvis and Sam, who had been neglecting quite a few of his prefect duties these days in order to keep a watchful eye on Bucky, they headed out through the common room towards the Great Hall. Bucky didn’t bother leaving Winter behind; it was a Saturday, and he frequently brought her to meals on the weekends. Plus, he was still making his week of absence up to her.

And she was _warm_ , and he was _comfortable_ , so why the hell not?

The fickle brat climbed over the table into Steve’s arms the moment they arrived, though, and Bucky rolled his eyes at the smug look Steve shot him. At least he had two hands to serve himself a meager dinner now. He was really beginning to wonder how long his hospital wing stays would inhibit his ability to make an honest attempt at reinvigorating his appetite.

Most of their friends were already at the table when he started eating, although he couldn’t help his wandering eyes from peering around the Great Hall until they found Wanda and Pietro sitting at the Slytherin table with Tony, who was apparently on about _something_ based on the way he was waving his hands around. Pietro paid him rapt attention, occasionally offering some input while Wanda sat silently by and stared down at her plate. Biting his lip, Bucky wondered if now wouldn’t be a good time to go talk to her about what had happened.

The decision was made for him when Nat stomped up to them and slammed a newspaper down on the table between Bucky and Jarvis.

“Oh, this can’t be good,” muttered Bucky at the same time Jarvis breathed, “Oh dear.”

“ _Oh dear_ is right,” hissed Nat, taking a seat beside Bucky and tossing her red hair over her shoulder before glaring down at the _Evening Prophet_.

Which meant this was undoubtedly something Bucky would have no interest in reading but also had no choice _but_ to read because _friends_.

Sighing, he reached out to flatten the paper while the others leaned closer to peer over his shoulder at the already offensive headline: “MAGICAL ACADEMY CLEARED – STUDENTS TO RETURN TO DURMSTRANG.”

> _Durmstrang Institute, which was closed last summer pending an investigation into potential ties between the school and the terrorist organization known as Hydra, will be reopening at the start of the new term in September._
> 
> _After the murder of former Senior Undersecretary Winifred Barnes, her husband, and one of their children, Durmstrang was implicated as a connection between the two killers. Frank Castle and Wilson Fisk were both eighteen-year-old recent graduates of the academy at the time of the crime and were discovered to be members of Hydra after their arrest and conviction. Both were sentenced to life in Azkaban before they were found dead in November, cause still unknown._
> 
> _The governments of the Wizarding communities throughout Europe with authority over Durmstrang Institute respected the request from Minister Pierce in July to conduct an investigation into a potential connection between Durmstrang and Hydra given Castle and Fisk’s history. Over the last seven months, all professors and staff have been interviewed and the curriculum has been thoroughly examined; numerous students were also randomly selected and questioned by the international ministries to determine any information they may have about the terrorist organization. At this point, no such evidence has been found._
> 
> _Minister Lukin of the Russian Ministry of Magic addressed officials in London yesterday, assuring governing bodies and concerned parents alike that Durmstrang Institute is a safe environment for children and young people._
> 
> _“No stone has been left unturned,” proclaimed Minister Lukin in the Atrium of the British Ministry of Magic. “We have conducted a thorough, internationally sanctioned investigation regarding the practices of Durmstrang Institute and its professors and staff. We have exhausted all potential sources. It has therefore been decided that whatever connection existed between these two misguided youths was one of personal conviction and terrible mistakes. Durmstrang appears to be nothing more than a meeting place for these two very sick and pitiable young men. What they chose to do with their lives after leaving the school was their choice, and they, like so many before them, made the wrong one.”_
> 
> _The Minister went on to explain that reopening the school at this time would be “counterproductive to the students who would be uprooted from their current substitute institutions.” Therefore, the bodies overseeing Durmstrang Institute have decided the school will welcome students back next term instead._
> 
> _This announcement has received mixed reception from various members of the Wizarding community both at home and abroad. One woman claimed, “It is a sad day indeed when a school for terrorists is allowed to reopen to brainwash more of our children. If I had a student going there, I would urge them to stay at Hogwarts or Beauxbatons where they’ll get a_ real _education.”_
> 
> _Another, a parent of one of Durmstrang’s students, had the opposite reaction: “The entire investigation was a farce anyway. It’s ridiculous to think that a school with such high moral standards and ethical conduct would be suspect of ties to terrorist groups. It’s understandable that they wanted to do everything they could to catch whoever was responsible for what happened to Barnes, but let’s be serious—shutting down the best school in the Wizarding world was a mistake.”_
> 
> _Whatever the popular opinion may be, the doors of Durmstrang Institute will reopen to students this September._
> 
> _For more on the events leading to Durmstrang’s closure last July – page 11_

Frowning, Bucky just shook his head. Another dinner ruined care of the _Prophet_.

When he looked back up, however, it was to find that his friends were _livid_.

“What the hell is this shit?” demanded Sam, pulling the paper closer. “ _’Very sick and pitiable young men_ ’? Man, there’s nothing about them to pity. They made their choice.”

“The choice to kill someone on the basis of their beliefs doesn’t make a person pitiable. It makes them a monster,” agreed T’Challa in a tone of utter disgust.

Bucky shrugged, turning his gaze back down to the table purely to avoid making eye contact. He wasn’t quite sure what he believed about it all, but maybe he had finally reached a point where he was just numb to everything. That was far more appealing than allowing himself to feel the anger that was festering in the others. “You knew it would happen eventually. Poor kids turned out wrong and killed someone—it’s a good story.”

“Thing is, they’re not _kids_ , Buck,” countered Steve, jabbing his finger at the article. “They’re _adults_. They knew what they were doing when they joined Hydra, and they knew what they were doing when they ki—“ He must have noticed Bucky’s flinch, because he paused a moment before altering his words to say, “They knew what they were doing when they went to Romania. You don’t _pity_ that. You condemn it and make damn sure people know you’re not going to let anyone get away with things like this.”

Nat snorted delicately. “That would be expecting people to do the right thing, which you _know_ is asking too much.”

“Not always,” Steve shot back, but Nat just raised an eyebrow at him.

“Most of the time.”

It looked like Steve was going to argue that further, but Bucky held up a hand to stop him. The good mood he’d felt in his sanctuary earlier had effectively evaporated, leaving him wanting nothing more than to just go back down to his dormitory and burrow into his bed where he didn’t have to listen to this shit.

“Let’s just not go there, okay?” he stopped them testily. Taking a deep breath, he continued, “I really don’t want to talk about those guys. They’re dead. It’s not important. What are you guys going to do?”

His question had been directed at Nat and Jarvis, both of whom blinked at him for a moment before processing the non sequitur.

“Well, I, for one, will be speaking with my parents about allowing me to remain at Hogwarts,” replied Jarvis with a disdainful glance down at the _Prophet_ still laid out between them. “Surely they wouldn’t want me to return to a school that has garnered such negative notoriety.”

Bucky nodded before turning his attention to Nat, whose lips were pursed in thought. When she saw him looking, she rearranged her features into something more benign and shrugged, explaining, “It’ll be up to my foster family, so… I guess we’ll find out.”

“Can’t you just tell them you’d rather stay here?” inquired Clint through a mouthful of mashed potato. He was the only one of all of them who had managed to pay attention to what was going on _and_ still keep his appetite to eat his dinner. That was talent.

Smirking, Nat rebuked him, “I don’t think you get how this works.”

“Well, just ask?” suggested Bucky with a shrug. “I mean, if you _want_ to stay. It would be good having you here.”

“So, I’ll take that to mean you’re definitely staying?” inquired Jarvis with a small smile.

Bucky took a deep breath, glancing back at the rest of them. Steve was scratching under Winter’s chin while letting her nibble at pieces of chicken off his plate; T’Challa, calm and collected as ever, was going to help him with their Divination project in the library tomorrow. Clint was consenting to later meals for him, and Sam had his back no matter what.

_I couldn’t leave them even if I wanted to._

Nodding, Bucky turned back to Jarvis and confirmed, “Yeah. I’m staying.”

 

***

 

“Okay,” sighed Bucky in frustration. “I don’t know about you, but I just don’t get how we’re supposed to tell if these prophecies are real or duds.”

T’Challa’s eyebrows twitched in what Bucky assumed was agreement as they glared down at the book they’d been poring over for the last hour. Divination had never been terribly difficult when they’d been in their O.W.L. levels; now that they were preparing for N.E.W.T.s next year, however, things had definitely changed. Rather than just trying to make predictions of their own using the various methods of the _noble art_ of Divination, now they’d reached the point where they were supposed to be able to use what they knew about those methods to determine whether prophecies were true or bullshit. T’Challa was a bit further ahead than Bucky given that he’d been in and out of the hospital wing so frequently lately, but even he wasn’t quite getting it half the time. It felt like they were making stuff up, and Bucky was _this close_ to going to Heimdall to ask what the hell they were missing.

“I have a feeling this one is false,” muttered T’Challa dryly, pointing to a prophecy from the 1930s that said world peace was on the horizon.

Snorting, Bucky picked up his quill and jotted down the title while retorting, “I’m pretty sure it would still be fake even if someone made it today.”

“Probably. As long as there are two people on this earth, there will never be peace.”

“That’s…kinda pessimistic, don’t you think?” inquired Bucky, quirking an eyebrow. T’Challa didn’t tend to fool himself into thinking things were something they obviously _weren’t_ , but he also wasn’t so quick to jump to negativity either.

T’Challa shrugged. “I prefer to see it as realism,” he explained with a small, sorrowful smile. “Much as we like to believe differently, everyone has opinions that don’t fit with everyone they know. If there are two people on earth, they will eventually disagree about _something_ , and that usually leads to fighting over it. So…”

“There won’t be world peace,” concluded Bucky with an understanding nod. He supposed that made sense, even if it did seem pretty downbeat. Then again, he was the king of avoiding getting his hopes up over anything these days, so it wasn’t like he could talk.

They focused on the prophecy for a while, laughing over the details (humane interactions, decline of greed for power, mutual understanding—Bucky honestly had to wonder what a failure this person felt like when they saw how things _really_ played out) and by the time they were ready to call it quits for the day, Bucky was pretty sure that at least they would have one right answer for Heimdall when they got to class this week.

As they were putting away their books, Bucky glanced over at the stacks to see Wanda and Skye sitting at a table of their own across the library. It didn’t look like they were studying; Wanda was just staring blankly at the table while Skye did all the rather emphatic talking.

Frowning, Bucky told T’Challa he’d be right back and made a beeline for them. He’d still not had a chance to talk to Wanda since the article about Durmstrang came out last night, so now was as good a time as any.

“Hey,” he called quietly as he approached their table. Skye and Wanda’s heads jerked up in his direction, the latter starting at the sight of him. Bucky wasn’t able to say anything else before she got up, cast him an anxious smile, and made her rapid escape.

Skye sighed but smiled up at Bucky when she said, “Hey, stranger.”

“ _I’m_ the stranger?” scoffed Bucky, still staring after Wanda for a few seconds before settling into a seat next to Skye. “You’re the one who never comes out of Gryffindor Tower anymore.”

“Please, I do _so_ come out,” Skye waved him off with a sly grin. “Scott found a hidden passage out of the castle into Hogsmeade, so I’ve _definitely_ been out.”

Somehow, that didn’t come to Bucky as any sort of surprise whatsoever. Scott Lang was potentially the most brilliant person at Hogwarts, coming in right behind Tony and T’Challa. However, instead of applying his knowledge and common sense to things like _class_ , he generally tended to focus more on the stuff he _wasn’t_ allowed to do. Steve had regaled Bucky with numerous tales of the trouble Scott had gotten into with a fourth year Hufflepuff named Luis, from stealing food from the kitchens without even the house-elves knowing to sneaking into Pym’s office and turning all his robes hot pink. It wasn’t as if he ever got caught, though, so the professors still thought it was a mystery. The fact that he’d stepped up his game and was now finding ways _out_ of the castle honestly just seemed like a natural progression.

“Well, next time you’re out, get me something from Honeydukes,” Bucky instructed her sternly. Skye giggled in response.

“I thought you’d say _you shouldn’t be sneaking out of the castle, what the hell’s the matter with you_.”

Shrugging, Bucky admitted, “It’s not like you’re doing anything _bad_. I mean, it’s _stupid_ and definitely _wrong_ , but hey, that shit’s on you.”

“Thanks for the advice, big brother,” snorted Skye with a roll of her eyes. Her face paled a moment later and she hurried to apologize, “I’m _so sorry_ , I didn’t me—“

“It’s fine,” interrupted Bucky, running a hand through his hair and looking away. The reminder that he no longer was anyone’s big brother had felt like ice was dropped into all his internal organs, but he was fighting the sensation with every ounce of willpower he had. When he saw that Skye was still distraught over her misstep, he smiled weakly and shoved her shoulder. “Seriously, it’s okay. I’m not gonna break or anything.”

Obviously relieved, Skye’s sarcastic smirk (which he could _swear_ Nat was consciously teaching her) returned with a vengeance as she innocently remarked, “True, you’ve already done that.”

She was apologizing profusely again as soon as she pointedly smacked his back only for him to cringe at the pain that shot through his muscles.

“For fuck’s sake, gimme a few months before you do that,” he groaned, reaching a hand behind his back to rub away the tension in his shoulders.

“Sorry,” she whispered abashedly. After a pause she added, “Wanda is too, you know.”

“She doesn’t have to be,” he immediately rebutted. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“She’s the one who jinxed your broom.”

“It’s not like she did it on purpose,” he reasoned, shaking his head vehemently. “I’m pretty sure Fury’s going to eviscerate whoever _did_ anyway, between what happened to me and using an Unforgivable on _her_. It _wasn’t_ her fault. I just… I was coming over here to _tell_ her that, but…”

When he trailed off, Skye smiled sympathetically and explained, “She feels really guilty about it.”

“Does _she_ think I blame her for it?” he inquired hesitantly, hoping the answer wasn’t what he thought it was.

For once, he got what he asked for. “Not really,” replied Skye slowly, turning over her words before letting them out. “I think…it’s more that she blames herself? So she’s not really ready for you to just walk up and forgive her yet.”

“There’s nothi—“

“I know that,” she interrupted gently in agreement. “Just give her some time. Once she’s done beating herself up, I think she’ll come around.”

Bucky wanted to argue and go find Wanda to shake the nonsense out from between her ears but, against his better judgment, nodded in acknowledgement. He was no stranger to needing time to self-flagellate over something that may or may not _actually_ be your fault, so he couldn’t begrudge her the same courtesy. Instead he tried to put it out of his mind for now, especially when Skye gave him the good news that her parents were _adamant_ that she stay at Hogwarts for the rest of her schooling. The twins would graduate at the end of the year, but at least he would still have some of the friends he’d made at Durmstrang with him here. That had to count for something.

 

***

 

February bled away quickly into March in a haze of makeup work, follow-up examinations with Madam Bishop, and just generally trying to pull his life together. Thankfully, his friends hadn’t pushed the subject of celebrating his birthday when all Bucky really wanted to do was hide in his dorm and forget that it was the first time he turned a year older without his family there to bear witness. Sarah wrote and sent a box of peanut butter cookies, and the Petrovs gave him a Winter-sized set of Quidditch robes in his house colors for his ungrateful feline (who looked adorable in it for the five minutes she consented to tolerate them), but he was allowed to pass the rest of the day quietly and without ceremony. Before Bucky knew it, they were halfway through the month and, thankfully, looking at only a few more weeks of Apparition lessons before they could take their tests and stop spending every Saturday with Undersecretary Karpov.

Well, every Saturday except days when they had Quidditch, where Bucky cheered on his friends while simultaneously trying to keep himself from falling into a pit of sorrow over not being able to play anymore. (And having to sit in the stands with the professors rather than the other students. That kind of sucked.)

Everyone had succeeded in Apparating outside their hoops, and most had managed to make it outside the door of the Three Broomsticks now that the weather was turning warmer. Bucky had thankfully not had to make up any lessons because, as Karpov frequently felt the need to point out as a motivational tool, he was already way ahead of the curve. He’d Apparated outside his hoop first, to the opposite end of the pub first, outside the door first, and down the street first. Everyone else generally had two reactions to hearing this repetitive diatribe against their abilities: admiration or flipping him off discreetly behind their backs. There was no middle ground.

All of his friends except Clint and Nat fell into the former category, but their fingers were usually a little more sarcastic about it. Usually.

So it came as no surprise to anyone that Bucky was chosen to be the first of them to attempt Apparating from the inside of the Three Broomsticks down the street to the post office. Of course, it wasn’t going to be _that_ easy; there had to be a hitch. He was supposed to Apparate _inside_ the post office, which meant not just visualizing the building, but every facet of the interior and where exactly he wanted to land as well. When he’d been Apparating outside, it was all right if he was a few feet off from where he had hoped to land. Now that would mean he might be standing on something—or, if he _really_ fucked up, _in_ something.

And, to top it all off, once he got there he had to turn around and Apparate back to the Three Broomsticks. There would be professors waiting on both sides, some of whom were there as Bucky’s bodyguards (which was standard these days) while others were just there to keep watch and make sure there was supervision.

_No pressure._

The class divided up—the ones (like Rumlow) who hadn’t been able to accurately Apparate down the street would be doing that while the rest of them waited to one by one make the circuit between the pub and the post office. The latter group had been given ten minutes to go to their destination, survey the lobby, and then get back for their turn.

Bucky had done his best, truly he had, but he was always distracted by the presence of so many people meant to be watching his back. That and the performance anxiety he felt (and the general anxiety because, you know, _he was Apparating between buildings_ ) made him a little twitchy as he stood in the post office and stared at the lobby to memorize it. He’d been there a few times, but it wasn’t particularly familiar to him the way the Three Broomsticks or even Gladrags were, so he tried to take in what he could in the ten minutes they had. (He wasn’t really sure why they didn’t get longer when it wasn’t like they would ever be Apparating on such a limited time schedule, but hey—asshole’s class, asshole’s rules.)

When they made it back, Bucky stepped up to the area that had been cleared of students and professors alike in the middle of the floor to allow him room to turn. Karpov watched dispassionately as always, moving out of the way after a brief reminder of the three Ds—which they were taking bets on being a legal requirement to say at the start of every lesson given his obsession with doing so.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky closed his eyes and tried to ignore all the pairs watching his every move as he focused on what he’d seen at the post office. There was only a relatively small section of open floor in the lobby, with a desk at the far side and mail slots on the walls to the left and right. A table was set by each of the front windows with pictures of the latest stationary and packaging material on display to passersby.

Where he wanted to be was dead center. He wanted to be in the spot where he was equidistant to all of it when he turned in place. He wanted to be standing on the solid wood floor, where the planks were a little lighter than the ones in the Three Broomsticks and probably a different type of wood altogether based on the whirls and loops on them.

He wanted to be _right there_.

So he turned, felt the familiar enclosure of a rubber tube around his face—

Something was wrong. He’d fucked up.

He could feel it the second he knew he was beginning the process of Apparating. That sensation of rising off the ground and traveling through a vacuum was both _there_ and _not_ at the same time. If he had to liken it to anything, he thought it felt like someone had grabbed onto his foot and was _yanking_ to keep him in place. It was like his shoes were stuck to the floor while the rest of his body was being torn in the opposite direction, stretching unnaturally until he was positive he must look like a strand of spaghetti—

And then something let go and it was like being strapped to the world’s largest slingshot—

The next thing he knew, he was falling onto a hardwood floor in the most agonizing, excruciating pain he’d ever felt in his life. He’d been hit in the head with a Bludger, broken his back, been poisoned, been in fights, had his heart figuratively torn from his chest, had Winter jump into his lap at _just_ the right angle—but nothing compared to the sheer torture he experienced as he _screamed_ as loud as his lungs would allow.

“Shit, someone grab a rag or something!”

“Try not to move, it’ll be okay, just _try not to move_.”

“Keep it steady, it’s still attached!”

Through the haze of his panic and pain, Bucky managed to open his eyes just enough to see Stark, Coulson, and Phillips surrounding him. His screams echoed through the lobby as Stark reached out to someone he couldn’t see and came back with a white cloth in his hand, using it to staunch the bleeding where Bucky’s left arm was dangling from his body by nothing but sinew.

Retching, Bucky swayed slightly before vomiting all over the floor.

“It’s going to be all right,” Coulson was calmly repeating, rubbing his back. As soon as the spasms and bile ceased, he put a hand to Bucky’s cheek and pushed his face in the opposite direction of his mangled, S _plinched_ left arm.

His throat was too sore and raw from vomiting to scream anymore. Instead his brain was finally kind enough to let him float away for a bit, awareness coming in spurts, rather than forcing him to sit through it all—Stark wrapping his arm in the cloth—blood everywhere—Phillips grabbing his numb left forearm to hold it in place—staggering out into the cool spring air—the castle—

He thought he remembered trying to tell them that this wasn’t right he was supposed to be back at the Three Broomsticks so the next person could try why were they taking him back to school where were they going why did it _hurt_ what was everyone _staring_ at—

 

***

 

“You know, I’m _actually_ getting tired of seeing you,” sighed Madam Bishop through pursed lips.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Bucky deadpanned, staring determinedly in the opposite direction of where she was practically _dumping_ essence of dittany on his arm. He still couldn’t feel it, but supposedly that would change—and not in the good way.

“Describe again what it felt like,” instructed Fury where he was reclining against the door to the hospital wing. Unless there was an emergency, the infirmary was officially closed until Bucky was taken care of.

 _All right, here we go again,_ he inwardly groaned before describing for the _fifth_ time, “It was like someone stuck my shoes to the floor or was pulling on my foot. Then it let go in the middle, and I was in the post office.”

“And no one was close enough to touch you before you Apparated.”

“No, sir. Karpov made everyone back away.”

Fury hummed noncommittally, folding his arms and staring into the middle distance in thought. Professor Stark, who had remained behind with Coulson while Phillips returned to Hogsmeade, snorted derisively with an expression so serious Bucky had only seen it once before—ironically, another time his life had been threatened.

“That idiot didn’t even have dittany on him. Who teaches a bunch of kids how to Apparate without bringing dittany?”

It was starting to feel like pins and needles were jabbing him in his left arm from midway down his bicep to the tips of his fingers. If Bucky didn’t know any better, he would say someone had merely been sitting on his arm and it had fallen asleep. “Is that something he’s _supposed_ to have?”

Coulson shrugged a shoulder, his usually composed visage more grim and uncomfortable than usual. “It’s not a _necessity_ , but it’s good to have on hand when you’re dealing with students who might Splinch themselves learning to Apparate. It heals most wounds, so they knit back together pretty quick.”

“He said he used it all up on that moron Alexei when he Splinched his fingertip.”

“Stark, you do realize it’s not appropriate to refer to students as _morons_ , correct?”

“Oops,” muttered Professor Stark flippantly, utterly unimpressed in the face of Fury’s dry disapproval. “Anyway, the point is that no one in their right mind would work with a couple dozen teenagers and only bring enough essence of dittany for what was basically a paper cut.”

“Well, if you’d like to go accuse the Senior Undersecretary of wanting Barnes to bleed out, feel free,” Fury offered acerbically, waving a hand toward the door. “Right now, I’m more concerned about what the hell happened _before_ he got Splinched, and why his shoe was _literally stuck_ to the floor of the Three Broomsticks when you went to find Karpov.”

Frowning, Bucky inconspicuously glanced down at his right foot to see that yes, he was missing a shoe. When he thought back to what he’d felt before landing in the post office, it all suddenly made more sense: it had seemed like he was launched into space because his shoe had fallen off and essentially done just that.

“The only people in the area were the Undersecretary, Melinda and Abraham, and the rest of the students,” mused Coulson.

“I don’t think Karpov would be stupid enough to try something like that with professors watching,” asserted Fury. “Barnes, any other Imperius eyes?”

“Not that I noticed,” he shrugged, yelping as he felt the skin pull on his left side. Madam Bishop tutted at him before retrieving yet _another_ vial of dittany. The pins and needles were gone, replaced by a mild burn.

“Interview the students who were present,” Fury ordered after another moment of thought. “Plus May and Erskine to see if they noticed anything strange.”

“Am I going to have to stop going?” inquired Bucky nervously. He’d been told to swear off Quidditch for the foreseeable future after the last incident, so this would probably be yet another of his freedoms stripped from him in order to safeguard his life. _When will it end?_

Fury, however, was silent rather than answering immediately in the negative. Eventually, he shook his head with an expression that seemed to say _what the hell_.

“For now, I don’t think it’s necessary to remove you from your lessons,” he decided. “From now on, though, every student will leave their wand behind when they go to Hogsmeade and submit to a search to make sure they’re not hiding it somewhere when they leave the castle. I’ll also talk to Karpov about bringing a few Aurors with him for the duration of these lessons.”

Frowning, Coulson pointed out, “Don’t you think a few parents are going to be upset about us searching their kids?”

“Probity Probes are there for a reason,” countered Stark with a shrug. “No contact, noninvasive. May’s got a few in her office.”

“Then I guess we’ve got nothing more to discuss. Mr. Barnes,” Fury addressed him, “same rules as usual. I don’t want you alone, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled. If Fury heard the gloomy (and pained because _holy shit his arm was starting to hurt_ ) quality of his voice, he made no indication of it as he turned and left the hospital wing with Stark in tow.

Coulson stayed behind with him, attempting to strike up a conversation that would take his mind off the fact that it felt like his arm had been dipped in molten lava to no avail. Once Madam Bishop had finished, he took his leave while Bucky gathered what courage he could muster to turn his head and look back down at his arm.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t _that_ bad. There was a huge gash right in the middle of his bicep that would have looked like an armband if it weren’t for the fact that it was red and angry and very _obviously_ a scar. It looked like it was a few days old, though, rather than fresh and oozing blood the way he’d expected. The image of his limb hanging on by a proverbial thread was still fresh in his mind, so this was infinitely better by comparison. It was still extremely painful, but it was nowhere near the level of agony he’d experienced in the post office; Bucky just grit his teeth and tried to soldier through it until Madam Bishop brought him something for the pain.

At some point, Steve and Nat showed up to visit him, the latter holding Winter in her arms. (Madam Bishop glared from across the room but didn’t say anything as his cat curled up in his lap and licked the fingers of his left hand in gentle, soothing strokes.) The rest of their friends, they told him, had decided to stay behind so as not to get in the way or invoke the ire of the nurse, which was probably for the best.

Everything was fine until he mentioned what Fury suspected, which was when Steve and Nat went into an absolute _rage_.

“How the hell can they _not_ know who did it? That’s ri—“

“You were _supposed_ to be _safe_ with all those pro—“

“—et Karpov’s behind it somehow. The guy’s a total creep.”

“A creep who didn’t even think about bringing a first aid kit or something.”

Bucky waited for them to talk themselves into silence, biting the inside of his cheek against what wanted to come out of his mouth. While Fury was conducting interviews and Steve and Nat were ranting and Madam Bishop was seeing to his arm and the world was going topsy-turvy—a thought had occurred to him. One that would have his mother turning over in her grave if she heard it.

“I think…” He had to clear his throat before the words would come out through his raw throat. “I might have an idea. Something…something I can do that might help or…get them off my back or whatever.”

“What is it?” demanded Nat almost immediately, probably wanting to vet whatever idea he had to make sure it wasn’t full of holes the way she was wont to do.

Sighing, Bucky pushed thoughts of what his mom would say out of his mind and answered, “Call for backup.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note for anyone I've promised one-shots or prompts to: given that I'm only about four chapters away from finishing the third and final part of this trilogy, I'm going to put the one-shots on hold for a few days until it's finished so that I can focus all my attention on giving you guys the best slam-bang finish I possibly can. Please keep submitting any you'd like to see; I do have a list of those prompts and other one-shots that I will continue posting while the story continues to update here, but I just want to get done with the actual writing of the main series first. Thank you so much for your patience! :)


	18. Safety in Numbers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: for the purposes of this story, I'm saying the events in Harry Potter canon didn't take place in the past of this universe.

Bucky stood outside Heimdall’s office and sucked in a deep breath. The last time he’d come seeking advice, he’d been a kid who was scared of a nightmare. He hadn’t known back then just how much he had to lose or how far he had to fall. Now, though, it was _all_ he thought about—both what he’d lost and what he still could. He’d been under the impression that he had hit rock bottom months ago, but now he realized he’d pulled out a shovel and started digging. He needed guidance. He needed validation.

He needed his parents.

So, steeling himself, he raised his fist to knock on Heimdall’s office door Friday night while everyone else was at dinner. It wasn’t like he was hungry since the Splinching incident anyway, nor was this a conversation he wanted his friends sitting in on. Fury could berate him later for slipping away when no one was watching.

“Come in,” called Heimdall’s voice through the wood, and Bucky pushed open the heavy door to pop his head around the corner.

Heimdall was sitting at his desk, essays stacked in front of him, but he leaned back when he saw Bucky and inclined his head. “Mr. Barnes, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m really sorry to bother you, Professor,” began Bucky nervously, entering the office and closing the door behind him. He nodded in acknowledgement of Heimdall’s gesture and took the empty seat opposite the desk with his eyes fixed on the floor. “I just… I had a question, and I thought you’d be the best person to go to.”

“I’m always here to help you,” Heimdall affirmed with a small smile. “What was your question?”

 _Okay, don’t wimp out._ “Well, it’s…a little weird?”

“I find most of the best questions generally are.”

Bucky huffed something like a laugh in surprise before biting the corner of his lip and chewing over his words. The last thing he wanted was to sound like some kind of baby, which was exactly what he remembered thinking the last time they’d been in the same position; it turned out Heimdall had been more than understanding then, too.

“Is there…” He paused. It sounded _so stupid_ in his head. “Do you know if there’s a way to, like…communicate with people who’ve…” _Just fucking say it!_ “Who’ve died? Like, after they’re gone?”

Heimdall, who generally didn’t exude strong emotions, actually raised his eyebrows in surprise. Apparently that was _not_ the question he’d been expecting, if he’d been anticipating anything at all.

“A way to communicate with the dead?” he repeated thoughtfully. 

“Yeah,” confirmed Bucky, breathing a sigh of relief that he wasn’t booted out on the spot.

His professor remained silent for a few minutes, genuinely considering his question while Bucky waited less than patiently. He’d come to Heimdall because if he was going to relate séances or whatever you had to do to talk to the dead with any subject, he figured Divination would be it. From the looks of it, however, he was testing even Heimdall’s knowledge of the subject, which was saying a lot.

After what felt like an eternity, Heimdall scooted forward and leaned his elbows on his desk. “I’m afraid there is only one way I have ever heard of to speak with the dead, but it is enshrouded in myth. No one has ever found the Resurrection Stone. It is believed that it may not exist at all.”

“Resurrection Stone?” inquired Bucky eagerly. Whether it existed or not, that already sounded too good to be true.

Seeming to sense his thoughts, Heimdall smiled sadly. “There is no magic that can bring back the dead, not even the Stone. You know this.”

Bucky deflated, nodding abashedly and lowering his eyes back to the floor. Still, he couldn’t help asking, “Why do they call it that, then?”

“The Resurrection Stone is one of three legendary items that, when brought together, are called the Deathly Hallows,” elucidated Heimdall calmly. “They are said to be the only way a mortal can become Master of Death. The artifacts have never been found and have, in fact, become fodder for children’s stories instead. Now, the Resurrection Stone was said to bring back the dead. In the tale, however, it did not _truly_ resurrect them. They were but a shadow of their living selves, and they wilted when trapped in a world where they no longer belonged.”

Flinching, Bucky thought about that: bringing back just a shadow of his family only to lose them all over again when they grew weary of wandering the world. No matter how much he wished he could talk to them again, he _couldn’t_ do that, neither to them nor to himself. Perhaps it was better that the Deathly Hallows _remained_ a legend and nothing more.

“So…that’s the only way?” Bucky clarified with a helpless shrug. “There’s nothing else, like…a séance or something?”

That made Heimdall laugh. “Believe it or not, the Muggles made that up on their own. Of course, the idea is based on the ghosts of our world, but as you know, not everyone becomes one. Even so, ghosts are echoes of the people they once were. They would not have much new insight for you.”

“Great,” he sighed, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. Well, the _right_ palm anyway; his left arm was still too weak to put forth much effort with it. (Again, Madam Bishop claimed it would heal in time—he was _so damn tired_ of hearing those words.)

Heimdall was quiet for a moment before he softly inquired, “You wished to commune with your parents?”

There was an automatic hesitation where a voice in Bucky’s head told him not to say anything else, that it would just make him look stupid and immature and so very hopeless, but… Then there was the part of him that _desperately_ needed advice and was willing to divulge a little bit of information to someone he trusted as much as Heimdall, who had been there for him even when he thought he was going out of his mind.

 _It’s not like it’s much of a secret anyway,_ he reasoned. So, he exhaled slowly and nodded.

“I wanted some advice about something I’m thinking of doing. I’m not… I’m not sure if they’d approve.” That was sort of a lie: he knew his _dad_ would approve.

“If you would like to tell me, I’d be happy to listen,” offered Heimdall. Unlike most adults, his tone suggested that he meant exactly that: Bucky was free to leave if he wanted to and neither of them would ever discuss this again. He’d already come this far, though, so it would be cowardly for him to stop now.

“With everything that’s happening, I think I need to do something. I think I need to get more help than just my friends and you guys,” he explained, waving a hand to indicate that he meant _all_ his professors. “But…”

When he trailed off, Heimdall prodded, “But you do not believe it is something your parents would condone.”

Sighing, Bucky nodded. “I mean, my dad probably would. He was a soldier. He used to tell me and my…my sister all the time about the guys he worked with. How they were like brothers and they always had each other’s backs, but Mom, she…” He chuckled humorlessly. “My mom always thought she had to go it alone. That it would make her look weak or afraid or that it would help the people who were trying to hurt her to talk about it.”

“And what do you think?” prompted Heimdall quietly, offering no opinion of his own.

Bucky thought about that for a minute, recalling the conversation he’d had with his father in Minister Stern’s antechamber in another life. Slowly, Bucky mused aloud, “I think maybe…there’s safety in numbers. I tried _so hard_ when I came back here to stay away from everyone. I just… It _felt_ like having anyone around me was just tempting fate, you know? Like they’d be gone just like everyone else and then there would be nothing left, so it was just… _safer_ to do things on my own. But I… I don’t think I feel that way anymore. When you’re alone, you miss things. You forget how people think. When you have backup, when you have…a _team_ looking out for you, there’s that much more of a chance that someone will be there to help you when you need it. And yeah, some people are assholes, but… _most_ people aren’t. And having them on your side might just be the difference between living and dying. So I…I don’t think doing everything by yourself is best. And maybe it’s weak in a way, but maybe it’s _strong_ in a way, too…”

When he glanced up, Heimdall was watching him with an inscrutable expression. Bucky honestly hadn’t meant to go on that tangent, but once he started, he just couldn’t stop. This wasn’t something he could talk about with one of his friends: they would have too much of a vested interest in his choice. They would try to influence him. Heimdall was one of the most open minded, nonjudgmental individuals Bucky had ever met, whether as a professor or in general. The words flowed out to him better than he’d been able to explain his plan to Nat or Steve, and he felt like a weight had been lifted just getting them out into the open.

Heimdall appeared to notice it too, and he smiled gently in response. “I think you are wise beyond your years, Mr. Barnes. And I think you have already made your decision.”

“I guess I have,” agreed Bucky after considering all that had come out in his case of verbal diarrhea. _Then why don’t I feel better about it?_

“If I might make a suggestion?” Heimdall requested, waiting for Bucky to nod before commencing. “Do not concern yourself with what your parents would think of your decision. I believe, if you reflect on the people they were, you will realize that they would be proud of whatever you choose. Sometimes we must believe that those we love who leave or are taken from us would see the best in our choices—and in ourselves—even when we cannot.”

“You make it sound so easy,” mumbled Bucky with a sigh, not realizing he’d said it aloud until Heimdall chuckled under his breath.

“I do, don’t I? You are still young, though,” he admitted with an apologetic wink. “These things take time to realize, Mr. Barnes.”

There was that word again: _time_. People always assumed there would be so much of it: time for him to learn to cope, time for him to understand his place in the universe, time for his friends, time for his goals, time for him to mature. The world revolved around time, but time was _fickle_. It might grant you a lifetime or just as much as it took to blink. If whoever was targeting him had their way, it would be less than the latter. Perhaps, then, it was sometimes best to live as if you had no time left, especially when someone sought to steal it from you.

So Bucky stood and he thanked Heimdall. He thanked him for listening and for offering his advice. And when he went to join his friends for dinner, he took a deep breath and attempted to lose himself to the here and now. Tomorrow was the day to make sure he got more time.

 

***

 

“Thank you for sitting down with me for this interview, James,” Christine Everhart drawled the way most kiss-asses had a tendency of doing.

“Please, call me Bucky,” he corrected her uncomfortably, trying not to fidget in his seat.

“Bucky it is, then,” she acknowledged before setting her quill to the notepad she was holding. “Now, I’d like to st—“

“Wait, before we get there,” interrupted Bucky. He glanced over to where Professor Fury, Professor May, Sarah, Tatiana, and Mikhail were sitting and cleared his throat. “There are a few things we need to get straight before we do this. Off the record.”

Blinking and lowering her notepad, Christine pasted a totally fake smile on her face and shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“What I say gets published—but _only_ what I say,” he began firmly. It was difficult to sound so sure of himself when he felt like crawling into a hole where no one would ever look for him, but he somehow managed it. “I don’t want any embellishments. No _pity the poor orphan_ shit or anything like that. You write the truth or I’ll sue you and the _Prophet_ for libel and defamation of character. And yes, I _do_ have the means. Got it?”

This time when she blinked, her mouth was hanging open in shock. Bucky wouldn’t be at all surprised if she had expected to come to Hogwarts for this interview and find some timid, scared kid just looking to tell his story. That wasn’t what she was going to see, however, and he just wanted to make sure it wasn’t what she _wrote_ about. Just because his mom had been a little too tight-lipped about saying anything to the press didn’t mean she was completely _wrong_ about what sharks they were either.

“That…sounds good,” choked out Christine after a long moment of doing nothing more than gaping at him.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky smiled in a way he was pretty sure probably looked more like a grimace and told her, “Then I guess we can get started.”

Nodding, Christine picked up her notepad again and stared down at it as if she was struggling to think of what she wanted to ask first. It appeared that he may have thrown her off her game. (A tiny part of him that was still feeling petty and vindictive over the nasty article she’d written in his third year wanted to laugh.)

“So… Bucky, why don’t you start by telling me about where you’ve been for the last three years? Your family went off the grid, but everyone knows now that you attended Durmstrang.”

“Right,” sighed Bucky. Of course she wanted to go straight for the gut to start. “Well, my mom was in trouble and, when Hydra couldn’t kill her, they started going for me and my dad, so… My parents decided it would be for the best if we left. We moved into the house in Galati the same day.”

He _didn’t_ mention the fight his parents had had before they made that decision.

Christine didn’t miss a beat, writing furiously. “How many times was your mother attacked?”

Thinking about that, Bucky shrugged and replied, “I don’t really know. My parents kept it from me so I wouldn’t be worried. I only found out about it right before we went into hiding.”

“What prompted that?” she inquired curiously, pausing in her writing to observe his expression. “I mean, if they didn’t want to worry you, why tell you all of a sudden?”

“Um…” Bucky glanced over at Fury, who nodded almost imperceptibly, before he continued, “Someone sent me a package in the post. It didn’t make it past the wards, though—it was cursed.”

“What kind of curse?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think they ever figured it out.”

Humming, Christine jotted something down. “And how did that feel? To get something like that and know someone was trying to hurt you?”

 _What the hell kind of question is that?_ It was only with a tremendous force of will that Bucky refrained from rolling his eyes. She was a journalist—of course she’d ask the most ridiculous questions.

“I was scared, I guess. My mom was the one running for Minister. She was the one putting herself out there, so I never really expected anyone to pay much attention to me.”

“Not even as such a prominent politician’s son?”

“Well, after the article you wrote about me back then, I figured I wouldn’t be worth the effort,” he snarked back in the face of her obvious sarcasm. To his satisfaction, there was actually the _tiniest_ bit of remorse that flashed across her visage before the calm, professional façade fell back into place.

“So, you left for Romania in December,” she pressed on without commenting. “Records indicate that you didn’t start school again until almost February. What were you doing all that time?”

“Figuring out who I was supposed to be,” he shrugged. “Transferring schools wasn’t going to do much unless I wasn’t _me_ when I did it.”

“Did you ever fear that the students at Durmstrang were potentially connected with Hydra?” she inquired with raised eyebrows, a little too eager this time. “The school, as you know, was only recently reopened after the investigation into possible ties.”

 _Sure. I would have stayed in a place where I thought I was cozying up to terrorists. Sounds like fun._ “I honestly never thought about it. There were good people and jerks just like anywhere else. It seemed…pretty normal.”

That was possibly the biggest load of shit he’d ever come up with, but he wasn’t about to do anything to make himself seem like an asshole in this interview. The whole purpose was to achieve the exact _opposite_ , so he had to behave accordingly.

Unfortunately for Christine, that didn’t appear to be the kind of answer she’d been looking for, and the number of notes she took on that question were fairly few. She was quiet a moment, reviewing her preset questions before deciding to go with, “How are you liking things now that you’re back at Hogwarts?”

“It’s…kind of like coming home.” It was a half-truth, but it was also the best he could do. “Everything’s pretty much the same as when I left, so it’s not like it took long to get used to it again.”

“And you spent the first few months here pretending to be Yasha Smirnov?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell anyone about your _true_ identity?”

_What, so you can get a secondary statement? Hell to the no, lady, but nice try._

“No,” he lied firmly. “I’m not really sure how you guys found out about it, but no one knew until that article came out.”

“What was your reaction to being outed?” she questioned, utterly unrepentant for her part in the media craze that had circulated his return from the dead.

“I was confused, mostly. I didn’t know how that information got out there.” This, he figured, was as good a time as any to get them on track to where he _wanted_ this to go, so he shrugged and added, “The whole reason I was keeping up the Yasha persona was because we—my guardians and I—thought that there could be people out there who might want me dead like the rest of my family. We were just trying to keep that from happening, and then…it was all wide open.”

Okay, so maybe he was lying again, but she didn’t need to know that he’d been hiding behind Yasha’s face to avoid staring down the shadows that crept up on him from the darkness like a plague. She didn’t have a right to the content of his nightmares or the guilt of his waking hours. She didn’t get to share his grief with the world.

“And has that changed since your identity became known to the public?”

 _Hook, line, sinker._ Bucky had to admit that she took bait like a _pro_.

“Yeah, it has,” he answered in a harder tone, positively glaring at her now. If he’d thought she was surprised earlier by his vehemence that she told the truth, she was even more taken aback now.

“The revelation that you’re alive has actually _put_ you in danger?”

“Yes,” he repeated as she began writing like a woman possessed. “I’ve almost been killed three times in the last three months alone, all under suspicious circumstances right here at Hogwarts.”

“Can you describe the incidents?” Rather than even feigning horror at his plight, Christine eyed him like the turkey at Thanksgiving dinner. It was disgusting and awful, but it was also exactly what he wanted, so he figured he could forgive her this time.

Bucky didn’t neglect mentioning anything when he described the lobalug encounter, the Quidditch debacle, and the Splinching episode. He gave her every gruesome detail—he went so far, in fact, that her face turned green and she needed a moment when he articulated what it was like to see half his arm hanging off as he bled out on the floor.

“And, uh…” Christine coughed into her hand. “And no suspects have been identified?”

“No.”

“H-how do you go about your day to day activities when…when these situations could happen at any time?”

Fury tilted his head to the side slightly in the corner of his vision, and Bucky found it both peculiar and a little unnerving that he actually understood what the man was trying to tell him: _not everything._

“I have a lot of people watching out for me. I’m never by myself, so…it’s comforting.”

“And you just…keep going?” Maybe it was simply his imagination playing tricks on him, but she looked mildly impressed.

Shrugging, Bucky responded, “Nothing else I can do. If I give up, I die.”

“Are you worried about that?”

“Who wouldn’t be?” he snorted, succumbing to the need to roll his eyes this time. “I’m not a politician—I have _no_ interest in politics _at all_. I have no idea why anyone would want me dead when I’m really not a threat. I’m not my mom, but here I am, going to the hospital wing every couple of weeks after someone tries to off me yet again. I mean, we’re coming up on finals. _That_ should be what I’m more worried about—but instead I keep wondering whether I can or can’t do something without having to look around every corner for someone just waiting to get a clear shot, you know?”

“That must be difficult,” commiserated Christine with almost complete sincerity.

“It is. It’s the hardest thing in the world, but the alternative is worse, so…yeah. I keep going.”

“How do you think your parents would feel if they saw these things happening to you?”

That one brought Bucky up short, and he had to swallow around a lump in his throat as he turned the question over in his mind. Running a hand through his hair, he eventually replied, “They’d be pissed. They gave up… _everything_ for me and for…for Becca to live. They didn’t make it, and if I die now…it means they failed. I don’t want that. I don’t want people to look at my parents and say _those are the people who couldn’t protect their own kids_.”

“What _do_ you want people to remember about your parents?”

“I want them to think of them as the people who were willing to do _anything_ for their family,” he answered immediately, surprised by his own honesty.

“What about your mother?” inquired Christine, seeming to remember they were in the middle of an interview and taking down a few notes where she’d been neglecting to for the last few minutes. “I think everyone would agree that her career is one for the record books. Would you want her to be remembered for that as well?”

“Honestly…no,” he responded, hesitant and choosing his words carefully. “It’s probably not the popular opinion, but my mom was more than just someone who sat in a chair and told people what to do. That’s kind of what I think about when I think of most politicians. She was so much more than that. I’d rather people think about how much she wanted to do to help everyone when they remember her, not how long she served or what bills she tried to pass. I want them to think of her as someone who cared deeply for _everyone_ and died trying to do what was _right_.”

Nodding, Christine paused again to consult her notes. “You mentioned before that you have no interest in becoming a politician yourself. Do you have any plans for after you finish school yet?”

“Well, _if_ I make it to graduation,” he remarked with a dark chuckle, “I’m looking into starting a charity for kids.”

“A charity?” That threw her for a loop.

_Time for a home run. Don’t strike out now, Barnes._

“Yeah, it was something my mom thought up a long time ago but never really got to see through,” he explained, figuring he could reveal a few details without giving away the whole game. “I’m hoping to create a program for kids who don’t have families or who need extra support to give them a safe environment to grow and learn.”

“That’s impressive. Most people your age would probably say they want a more lucrative job than working in a nonprofit.”

“I’m not really worried about money.” _I’ve got enough of it to build a swimming pool of cash._ “I just want to give kids what I was lucky enough to have for as long as I did.”

Professor Fury cleared his throat and announced, “I think we’ve got time for just one more question before Mr. Barnes should probably head back to his dormitory for the evening.”

Nodding, Christine turned back to Bucky and took a deep breath before questioning, “So, any last thoughts you’d like to leave our readers with?”

Bucky chose his words with care. “I just want to thank everyone for their support. I know I’ve gotten a lot of messages from people who mean well, offering condolences and stuff.” All of which had been confiscated upon arrival by Fury and probably burned, but that was neither here nor there. “And I guess I just plan on moving forward as best I can. Hopefully I can help keep my mom’s legacy of trying to make the world a better place alive for as long as whoever’s trying to kill me will allow, and I’ll be eternally grateful to anyone who wants to help me do that.”

In all the years he’d been exposed to the press, Bucky had never seen a reporter look more relieved to finish an interview, especially one as exclusive and high-profile as Bucky was ashamed to admit this one would be. Christine packed away her notebook and quill, shook his hand with a tremulous smile, and followed Professor May out of Fury’s office so fast Bucky would have thought she’d Apparated if he didn’t know any better. The second she was out the door, Sarah’s arms closed around him and he held on tight, burying his face in her shoulder.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, rocking him back and forth slowly. “Your parents would be too.”

“I hope so,” he breathed, gripping her tighter with his right arm since his left was still uncooperative.

Tutting, Sarah pulled back just enough to look him in the eye and reassured him, “Whatever keeps you alive would make them happy.”

“And that was a damn good show you put on,” complimented Fury with a smirk. “You’ll have everyone across the country bawling tomorrow morning.”

Snorting, Bucky ran a hand through his hair and sighed, “Who knows if that’s going to stop all this, though.”

Mikhail shook his head. “You just revealed yourself to be a mature, responsible young man who defied all odds to get here today and is still pursuing a selfless career. That will go a long way.”

“You’ll be the Wizarding community’s golden boy,” agreed Sarah with a confident smile. “They’ll be rallying around you by the droves.”

“Hydra or anyone else will have to think twice before they come after you now,” Tatiana added, coming over to put an arm around his shoulders. “You’re not just some—what did you call it?— _pity the poor orphan boy_ anymore.”

Laughing self-deprecatingly, he asked, “Do you think that was too much?”

“She’s a reporter,” Sarah replied flippantly. “She eats worse for breakfast.”

 

***

 

The article ran Monday morning on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ under the headline, “JAMES BARNES SPEAKS OUT – A _PROPHET_ EXCLUSIVE.”

“Well, I guess they’re excited,” remarked Steve at breakfast as he perused the interview with the rest of Bucky’s friends. They’d known that he was meeting with Christine Everhart and had offered their support, but unfortunately Fury had limited who would be allowed to attend the shit show to only the two highest ranking professors and his guardians (along with Sarah, who was as good as). Knowing he had their support had been invaluable, however, and he wasn’t quite sure what he would have done if they hadn’t been waiting for him when he returned to the common room with Winter ready for cuddles. If he spent the whole evening in bed hiding from the ramifications of his actions without saying another word to anyone but his cat, at least his friends were nice enough to act like it didn’t happen.

“They’d better be,” grumbled Bucky, spearing a bit of scrambled egg on his fork and choking it down. “Thought I was gonna blow it.”

“Please,” scoffed Nat distractedly from where she was still reading through the question-answer session. “You grew up around this stuff. I’d be shocked if you did anything stupid in front of a reporter.”

“Yeah, Buck, this is great.” Steve glanced up to grin at him. “Anyone who isn’t touched by this is either heartless or Hydra.”

“And no one wants Hydra’s help anyway,” observed T’Challa, the rest of them nodding in emphatic agreement.

Bucky smiled a bit at their encouragement but was still very much aware of the stares he was receiving from their classmates throughout the day. The professors didn’t mention it, although Heimdall had given him a proud smile the first day they had Divination after he did the interview. Karpov, oddly enough, remained silent on the matter as well; he conducted class the same as usual on Saturdays without so much as looking in Bucky’s direction. Other students, however, couldn’t seem to talk about anything else for a few days. Every now and then, he caught whispered conversations in the corridors when his professors escorted him to his next class, but none of them seemed overtly negative. Honestly, it sounded like most people were just surprised at what they read—his _accidents_ had been considered just that, so finding out that someone at Hogwarts was actively trying to kill him appeared to spook his classmates.

Well, _most_ of his classmates. Rumlow, of course, loved to recite bits of the interview in a weepy, high-pitched voice whenever Bucky was nearby, whether a teacher was present or not. He’d mock Bucky by calling him _baby boy_ when they were in the vicinity of each other, particularly in class when he could get away with sitting behind Bucky and whispering it under his breath to get a rise out of him. Nat and Steve were both practically _begging_ him to let them take care of the situation, and there were definitely days when Bucky seriously considered taking them up on the offer, but every time he thought about it, he attempted to remind himself that this was what he’d signed on for. There was a reason his mom hadn’t put herself out there, and this was part of it. He’d made this bed and opened himself up to the ridicule of the Wizarding world just the same as he’d tried to garner its support, so now he had to lie in it.

That didn’t make it _easier_ per se, but at least it gave him a goal to work towards while _other_ things took center stage to irritate him.

They began work on the Patronus Charm in Defense Against the Dark Arts on Tuesday, just taking notes and learning about what was necessary in order to properly cast it. Professor May indicated that there were a lot of wizards who never succeeded in making a corporeal Patronus and that it wasn’t often required since they were generally best for combating dementors, all of which were under Ministry control and therefore not a threat. Still, it was something that was good for them to learn; even a weak Patronus Charm had protective qualities. They could also be used to communicate, as well, and Bucky thought back to the Christmas when Aurors had come in the middle of the night to take them to the Ministry. He hadn’t realized then that they’d used a Patronus to inform the Minister that they were on their way, but according to the description in their textbook, it was the only spell that had the same appearance.

Thursday was the day they started actually _using_ the charm, placing themselves at intervals around the classroom and attempting to produce even the slightest silver mist. No one was expecting to get a full, corporeal animal on their first day—and no one did. Almost three weeks passed and all anyone managed was a shapeless shot of silver that flew across the classroom like a projectile and vanished again when it hit the wall.

In all that time, Bucky hadn’t conjured a thing. He was at the top of Professor May’s class. He’d perfected every spell they’d come up against thus far—both verbally _and_ nonverbally—but no matter how hard he tried, he was utterly incapable of producing so much as a silver _glow_ from the tip of his wand.

Unfortunately, he knew exactly why: it took _happy_ memories to make a Patronus, and most of his were locked up tight in his head where he didn’t have to face them.

Professor May kept prompting him in an uncharacteristically gentle fashion to think harder and find happier memories each time he made an attempt. It never worked, so by the time they’d been practicing for a few classes and _everyone_ (including Rumlow, who took every opportunity to jeer at him for his failure) was able to do at least _something_ , he was beyond frustrated.

Nothing from his time at Durmstrang or in Romania worked, to _no one’s_ surprise.

Stuff from his first three years at Hogwarts made him feel warm but otherwise had no effect.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he groaned quietly, smacking his head down on the book in his lap with a whine. In an attempt to make up for whatever deficiencies he was suffering in the _happy_ department, he’d taken to sitting in the library every night (since, you know, he didn’t have _Quidditch_ or anything to look forward to anymore). Call it a fruitless hope that if he drilled the theory into his head _over and over and over and over and over_ again, maybe the powers that be would throw him a bone and just let him make a damn Patronus already. It never _worked_ , but it was worth a shot.

Winter made an aborted sound, seeming to remember at the last second that the librarian didn’t actually _know_ he’d been sneaking her in to sit in the corner with him as he studied, before hopping up on the book and rubbing against his face. Sighing, he lifted his head back up and grimaced in a way he hoped looked more like a smile.

It definitely didn’t.

She cocked her head before poking her nose into his cheek, probably to get him to smile. Bucky set his book aside and wrapped his arms tight around Winter, burying his face in her fur.

“I don’t know what to do, Win,” he breathed against her back. “I think I’m emotionally constipated.”

“I don’t think they make medication for that.”

Jerking in surprise, Bucky gaped at Wanda where she smiled shyly down at him. He hadn’t seen her since the day he’d spoken with Skye about the broom debacle, so he was more than surprised that she was standing in his general vicinity much less speaking to him again.

“Can I sit?” she requested quietly, nodding her thanks when Bucky gestured to the spot beside him. Once she was settled, Wanda tentatively reached a hand over to stroke Winter’s head with one finger. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” countered Bucky immediately. She just smiled sadly at him.

“But I do. I shouldn’t have avoided you for so long. I just…needed time.”

Nodding, Bucky inquired, “Did you get it?”

Wanda hummed noncommittally, falling silent for a few minutes as she seemed to ponder over what she wanted to say next. When she raised her eyes from Winter, who was bumping her head into Wanda’s hand in an effort to get more attention, Wanda remarked, “I didn’t know that wasn’t the only one.”

“The only what?”

“The only time someone tried to kill you,” she clarified.

“Oh.” Bucky tugged on a few strands of his hair, distractedly kissing Winter on the head when she abandoned Wanda as a lost cause and retreated back under his jaw. “Yeah, it’s been… Things have been weird.”

“I should have been there for you,” sighed Wanda remorsefully.

“Hey, what happened to you wasn’t sunshine and daisies either, you know,” he pointed out as gently as he could. “I can’t even imagine what that must be like—knowing you did something but you didn’t _want_ to.”

Morosely, Wanda added, “I don’t even remember doing it. All I knew was that Fury was telling me you and Stark saw me in the Quidditch shed, but…I’ve never been there before. Not that I can remember.”

“I’m sorry,” murmured Bucky sympathetically, cringing when he realized his next statement was irrevocably _true_ and that he hadn’t even thought of it before. “It’s my fault.”

“What?” Wanda frowned, shaking her head. “How do you come to _that_ conclusion?”

“No one would have cursed you if it weren’t for me. If you weren’t my friend or I…I wasn’t _here_ —“

“Don’t.” Her tone brooked for no argument, and there was more fire behind her eyes than Bucky thought he’d ever seen before. “Do not think anyone would benefit from not knowing you.”

“But I—“

“You’re _worth_ the trouble.”

Blinking, Bucky couldn’t find anything to say to that, so he turned his gaze back down to his knees uncomfortably. He didn’t see it. He didn’t see how anyone could think that it was worth getting cursed and controlled against their will just because they knew him. Sure, whoever did this would undoubtedly have gotten someone else regardless of whether they were friends with him if they _really_ wanted to kill him, but the fact of the matter was that that wasn’t what happened. They went after his _friend_ —any one of them could be next, just like Hydra had gone after him and his dad when they couldn’t take down his mom.

_How long will it be before I get everyone around me killed?_

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Shooting Wanda a sidelong glance, Bucky shrugged his shoulders listlessly without answering. His left arm wasn’t sore anymore, but it was still noticeably weaker than his right. Yet another thing he’d managed to fuck up just by existing.

“You’re thinking that next time, it won’t be the Imperius Curse. You’re thinking one of us will die and it will be your fault."

“And you thought Divination was a waste of time,” he snorted, figuring a roundabout answer would do just as well.

“I don’t need to learn to read minds to know what is happening in yours,” she teased lightly. After a second, she rested a hand on his left forearm and squeezed. “You can’t think like that. All it will do is make you miserable.”

“So will anything happening to you guys,” whispered Bucky without making eye contact.

“It won’t,” she reassured him. “And if something did, it wouldn’t be your fault.”

Scoffing, Bucky snapped, “How can you say that when none of this would be happening if it weren’t for me?”

“None of this would be happening if it weren’t for your _mother_ ,” Wanda amended in a stern tone Nat would be proud of. “Would you blame her for these things?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why do you blame yourself?”

Bucky opened his mouth, frowned, and closed it again. It was so easy to say it was his fault because he was the one here—he was the most direct connection between a murderer (or many murderers depending on how unlucky he was) and his friends. If one of them died, it _would_ be because they knew him. He would be the reason they died even if he wouldn’t be the one who killed them.

_Hopefully, if that interview does its job, we won’t have to worry about it anyway._

Sighing, Bucky shook his head and muttered, “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.” He was getting pretty good at recognizing the things he was capable of doing something about and riding out the things he wasn’t. This, unfortunately, would be one of the latter. No matter how hard he tried, none of his friends (even Clint, who was a tossup some days) were stupid enough to believe he _really_ wanted them gone, so doing something noble like driving them away would doubtlessly backfire. Putting himself on the line for the _Prophet_ was the most he could do at this point to protect himself and the people he cared about, so for now that would have to suffice.

Wanda didn’t even attempt to argue. Unlike most of his other friends, she didn’t try to force him to talk about it and respected his wishes. The subject would probably come up another time, but not now. There was far too much already cycling through his mind for him to worry about that on top of it all.

“Steve said you are having trouble with Patronus Charms,” commented Wanda instead, changing the subject.

Bucky snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Well, when you have _emotional constipation_ , that is only to be expected,” she told him wryly, smiling when Bucky chuckled under his breath.

“Yeah, well, like you said: they don’t exactly make anything for that.”

“No,” admitted Wanda with a sigh, “but there are ways around it if you can’t think of a happy enough memory.”

Raising an eyebrow, Bucky inquired, “What do you mean?”

“Well, what if you tried a…a _feeling_ instead of a memory?” she suggested. “You could remember how you _felt_ at different times and maybe it will do the same thing.”

“That… I didn’t think about that,” he mused quietly with a frown. He’d been so focused on individual incidents (which, admittedly, was what May _told_ him to do) that he didn’t even think about trying that. It could work. Maybe. After all, remembering a feeling was the same as a memory, right? It just wasn’t one in particular.

The only problem was he wasn’t sure he remembered what it was like to be truly _happy_ without some kind of darkness hovering in the background, waiting to swallow him whole.

“You are making this too difficult,” tutted Wanda. “I can already tell.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You have that _constipated_ look.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he grumbled, his irritation only making her laugh.

“I will help you,” she offered, turning to face him directly. “Close your eyes.”

Bucky squinted at her while muttering to Winter, “You’ll keep her from robbing us, right?” One slap to the shoulder later, his eyes were closed.

“Now think about the last time you didn’t feel upset or…or scared.”

It took a minute, but an image of Christmas morning at the Rogers’s brownstone in Brooklyn a couple of months ago popped into his mind’s eye. He’d managed to distract himself long enough to put the bullshit aside and have a good morning, he supposed.

Something must have shown on his face, because Wanda continued, “Now keep going back to a time when you felt content.”

That one was almost easier: The Spot with Steve after telling him his secret. It hadn’t seemed like trying to be someone he wasn’t then; after his outburst of grief, he’d felt like he could be _whoever_ he was becoming without Steve judging him. There was no worry there—at least not until the subject of Sarah had come up—and it was the closest he’d come to feeling _calm_ since months prior.

“Think about a time you laughed— _really_ laughed, not the pitiful excuses you used to make at Durmstrang.”

Hogwarts. His third year. Becca tackling him. Promising to teach her Quidditch. She’d been so excited.

That was a good day. His parents had been proud of him and, for the first time in months, he hadn’t had to worry about a bunch of reporters staring at him like some circus animal meant to perform for them. It was just their little circle, celebrating a game well played even if he was disappointed at the outcome back then. His mom had been smiling; she’d held him tight like she might never see him again, but not _literally_ thinking she wouldn’t see him again the way they tended to afterward. His dad had squeezed his shoulder, talked through the game with him, and smiled in that way that said he was so proud of the person Bucky was becoming.

So many times they’d told him that, and Sarah too.

> _You and your sister are my greatest achievements and the most important things in my world, and I will do anything I can to make it a safe one for you. I love you so much, baby. If you never believe or remember anything else, you remember that._

He hadn’t. He’d put aside memories of the hugs and the way she’d held him together when he was breaking—the laughs with his dad—the teasing with Becca—the way his mom would have the house decorated for his birthday when he got back from Muggle school every year or his dad would take him to the park and throw basketballs to him so he could bat them away like Bludgers or Becca would come into his room after a nightmare and curl up next to him and Winter or the fact that every moment he got to spend with just his family and no one else made him feel like the most special kid in the world—he’d put it all aside except for his grief and the chain he was fingering around his neck that held them close to his heart every day without fail.

He distantly felt something being pressed into his hand and a whisper in his ear, speaking the words for him to repeat: _Expecto Patronum._

And when they got kicked out of the library by one ferociously _pissed off_ librarian for the silvery cat that streaked through the stacks, Wanda’s arms took the place of his family’s when he collapsed in the corridor and cried the wall between him and his family away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go, then it's on to part three!


	19. From the Best (2014)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the time jump!
> 
> When you see a sentence all in italics and book-ended by quotation marks, those are notes between Steve and Bucky.

There was a bump against Bucky’s leg, and he fought to keep a straight face as he discreetly glanced down to see Winter carrying the parchment he and Steve had been passing back and forth throughout the unbearably long duration of the graduation speeches in her mouth. They were sitting alphabetically, so while Bucky was in the second row behind their professors, Steve was way back with the Rs. They refused to let that stop them from making fun of the proceedings, however, so they’d enlisted Winter’s help. It was perfect: with everyone wearing their long graduation robes (which were basically fancier versions of their house robes), Winter could easily slip through the rows of chairs between him and Steve without being obvious to the parents and friends sitting off to the side watching their graduates with teary eyes and proud smiles. Somewhere in there were Sarah, Tatiana, and Mikhail, although Bucky hadn’t seen them when they marched out onto the grounds.

It was a gorgeous day for this, not too hot with the sun shining off the Black Lake behind the speaker’s podium like thousands of glittering diamonds. All along the shore, the boats that were ordinarily tasked with escorting the first years to their first night at Hogwarts sat in a row, but today they would serve another function. After everyone had done a lot of talking and the students were all called for their diplomas and they were given a few minutes to greet their families for pictures and tears—after all their business at Hogwarts had officially been concluded, they would step into those boats for the first time in seven years to leave the castle the same way they arrived.

That, however, would probably never _happen_ at the rate these speakers were saying their pieces. Seriously, Bucky was beginning to wonder if there was some kind of international competition for which school could hold the longest graduation ceremony. When they’d attended Peggy’s last year, it had been a five-hour affair. (Although, to be fair, a good half hour was spent cleaning up after Tony’s waterproof fireworks exploded beneath the surface of the Black Lake, simultaneously drenching the assemblage and setting the boats on fire. That had been _wild_.) Today, it looked like they were trying to break that record: the ceremony had started at ten in the morning and now it was almost four o’clock with no end in sight.

Professor May had spoken first, welcoming their families and congratulating them on a hard-won end to their education. She waxed poetic about the difficulty of completing seven long years, surviving the N.E.W.T. exams (which were called _Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests_ for a fucking reason), and making it to this day without having some sort of mortal accident. It was meant as a joke but when she said that, her eyes came to rest on Bucky during her scan of the crowd, and he couldn’t stop himself from shrugging helplessly; there had been the slightest twitch of her lips in response as she plowed on.

Ever since his interview had run in the _Daily Prophet_ , the near-death experiences had stopped. Or, at least, the ones that weren’t to be expected when you went to a school where learning dangerous magic was pretty much a regular Tuesday. Bucky had been inundated with letters from people not only throughout Great Britain but the international Wizarding world at large, offering their support and saying they would be fighting the good fight for him in whatever way they could. His friends had grown even more protective, and students he’d never met before scowled at the assholes who so much as blinked at Bucky funny. That number had decreased tremendously after Rumlow and Rollins went back to Durmstrang when it reopened, however.

Surprisingly enough, most of the people who had originally gone to Durmstrang didn’t return to their old alma mater. They were given the option of waivers to remain at Hogwarts, and a great number of them decided to take Fury up on his offer to finish their education there. People who had been bullies and assholes under Pierce and Schmidt’s tutelage turned into laughing, caring Hogwarts students here and became just as protective of their resident famous person as everyone else. As a result, seventh year went off pretty much without a hitch.

Some days were harder than others, there was no doubt about that. Bucky still woke up sometimes feeling like getting out of bed was some impossible feat or that he was so worthless it wasn’t like anyone in his classes would miss him if he didn’t show up. There were still days when he mentally hid from his memories because the nineteenth of August rolled around and he couldn’t think about his sister without feeling like his heart was being ripped out of his chest, or he smelled something familiar and internally collapsed when he realized it was the same perfume his mom liked. Those days were fewer and further between, though. Most of the time, he was able to clench his fist around his dad’s dog tags and his mom and Becca’s rings, take a deep breath, and soldier on. Some of those days, he could even find the strength to pull out the last note his mom had ever sent him, three days before she died, and not cry rereading the part where she said he was her greatest achievement and how much she loved him. That didn’t stop him from hitting up the Staples in Brooklyn during one of their vacations to get it laminated just to be safe, but still, it felt like he’d climbed a mountain and deserved at least a little praise for it.

Today had almost been a Bad Day. He’d woken up in his dormitory for the last time, blinked up at the ceiling, and remembered that his parents and Becca wouldn’t get to see him graduate. It had occurred to him increasingly over the last month or so, and his nightmares had returned with a vengeance as a result—mercifully _after_ he’d taken all his N.E.W.T.s, or else that would have been a royal clusterfuck. Every time he’d start getting visibly lower (or at least he assumed so since he didn’t know any mind readers regardless of his suspicions about Professor Heimdall), his friends would be there to yank him back up straight and remind him that they were there, the family of his choosing that would follow him to whatever end. Clint, oddly enough, had been the first to realize what was happening as they were getting dressed that morning. He’d plucked up Winter immediately, shoving her in Bucky’s face and speaking in a high-pitched voice that was supposed to be his cat’s until Bucky laughed and pulled his fur ball into a hug. Winter had licked his face and nuzzled his neck and yeah, it was okay. It wasn’t _good_ , but it was okay.

Until they had to sit through every Ministry official known to man telling them about the value of education and basically giving them a nonstop advertisement for jobs at the Ministry they could apply for now that they were finished with this stage of their lives. Bucky was positive that at least half his classmates were asleep with their eyes open behind him, so could they really blame him for searching for a distraction?

Bending down to make it look like he was scratching his leg, Bucky retrieved the slip of parchment and stroked Winter’s back as he read, “ _I’m putting my money on Stark._ ”

Bucky almost snorted aloud, rolling his eyes and pulling a pen out of his robes. His last message had been something to the effect that he was trying to figure out which professor would get tired of this shit first and hurry it along. He had to admit, Steve probably had a point.

“ _True. Fury might butt in, though. He looks like he’s ready to blow a gasket._ ”

That was also true: Fury hadn’t gotten up to speak yet. Apparently it was customary for the headmaster to be last so that he could also distribute their diplomas and shake their hands. Despite only having one visible eye, that eye spoke volumes regardless of the steady patience plastered to the rest of Fury’s features. Bucky honestly couldn’t blame him since, of all the people he wanted to hear speak at graduation, he thought Fury would be way better than the last ten Ministry goons promoting their departments and handing out internship opportunities to certain special graduates who’d earned it somehow.

And they hadn’t even gotten to Pierce yet.

Folding the parchment in half, Bucky scratched Winter’s ears and handed her the note. Because she was a brat and wanted him to know just how much he was putting her out when she could be playing with her toys and taking a nap instead, Winter bumped her head into his palm for extra scratches first before graciously taking his note and slinking off to find Steve again. That, regrettably, left Bucky with nothing better to do than turn his attention back to the ceremony.

Honest, _how_ did these people not get tired of hearing their own voices? Janet van Dyne had been up there for at least ten minutes by Clint’s watch (thank goodness they were sitting together or Bucky may have fallen asleep by now), droning on about the importance of Aurors and the crime-fighting members of the Ministry in keeping their world free from fear. It felt like common sense, though, like a police chief getting up and telling them _you know we take the bad guys off the street, right_? They got it: Aurors good, bad guys bad.

Steve had returned the note with a little cartoon drawing of Fury’s head exploding before she finally finished by reading off a list of the Hogwarts graduates who had been accepted into the Auror program. Bucky had to pause in writing his reply to whoop loudly with their other friends when Steve’s name was announced. (Fuck the whole _no applause till the end_ bullshit—that was his best friend they were talking about up there.) When the speech was mercifully, blissfully over, the real mindfuckery was set to begin as Pierce took the podium.

“ _He’ll talk for an hour—time him, ‘cause I’m calling it._ ”

Once he’d sent Winter off with his message, Bucky reluctantly exchanged a _Done With This Shit_ glance with Clint before looking back up to the stage to see Minister Pierce staring out at them, that faux-grandfatherly smile on his face. It was the same one he’d worn when Yasha Smirnov had interviewed for a position at Durmstrang Institute, and what was hiding underneath was actually more _maybe there are two or three good ones_ than _I care about your future_.

“Ladies and gentlemen, professors, and new graduates, it is my honor to address you today,” he began, that smirk never once dropping from his countenance. “It is traditional for the Minister to give a speech about the difficult feats you have all achieved in the last seven years and the new horizons awaiting you as you step out of school and move on to the next great chapter of your lives. However, you’ve heard a great deal about that today already, so I would hate to bore you with more rhetoric.”

There was a titter of laughter, mostly relieved, that moved through the crowd. Bucky just rolled his eyes, plucking Steve’s return note from Winter’s mouth when she slipped between his ankles. “ _I was betting on two._ ”

 _If anyone could,_ Bucky thought wryly, setting the parchment in his lap when Pierce started talking again. He’d wait to reply until he had something good to make fun of this time and occupied himself with petting Winter’s head absentmindedly.

Pierce allowed a moment for everyone to fall silent again before he continued, “Instead I would like to talk to you about something we don’t tend to think about a great deal, especially when you live in the safety of such a fine institution as Hogwarts.”

Raising an eyebrow, Bucky bit the inside of his lip to avoid groaning when he predicted where this was going to go.

“Dangers persist in our world, from within our ranks as well as without.”

_Called it._

“As you leave Hogwarts and move forward into the world, many new things will present themselves to you. They may be opportunities that you never considered being available. Perhaps you will find a career you hadn’t thought possible or decide to travel around the world to discover and explore the many things it has to offer. The only limit to your own achievement is that which you enforce yourself. But wherever you may roam, there will be dangers the likes of which our forebears were never exposed to. You will learn that while Hogwarts and the other excellent academies of magic throughout the world are built on the idea that learning is the root of all that is good in our community, there are also evils to be found that will seek to supplant those teachings and seduce you to their ways.”

“ _I guess Pierce feels guilty about all those sex workers he has to hire since he probably doesn’t get any from his wife_ ,” Bucky jotted down on the parchment, handing it down to Winter. She nipped his finger, took the note, and was gone.

Pierce’s expression was grim, his eyes scanning over the crowd as he silently allowed his point to settle in their psyches. For his part, Bucky wasn’t concerned. He’d seen plenty of the evils the world had to offer, many of them working at the Ministry itself, and wasn’t going out there blind.

Most of the next few minutes were filled with rhetoric about those dangers: the lure of dark magic (which was rich coming from someone who oversaw a school that was just fine with teaching it), the murky ambiguity of the unknown, and the seemingly innocent who couldn’t be further from what they appeared.

And, of course, entanglements with Muggles.

“ _Muggle sex workers, Buck. Magical ones are just fine._ ”

Once again, Steve had a good point there.

“One of the greatest dangers to our society and all of its members is the dichotomy of our existence: magic versus Muggle, wizard versus human. The wall between our species has existed since before anyone here was born and will continue to do so for as long as we walk this earth. It is one built on false assumptions and ignorance, creating fear where understanding would cure all ills.”

_Then why the fuck don’t you want to bring that wall down, you dick?_

“I do not tell you this to concern you or make you fear for your safety,” Pierce assured them as the smile returned to his face. “I tell you this so that you may continue to educate yourselves as you step out into the world. The more you know about the dangers awaiting you, the more prepared you will be to face them. The only way to combat ignorance and assumptions is with open-minded selflessness and the ability to allow the opinions of others to impress upon you that there is not one way of thinking. A threat to one may be a natural element of life to another. Only together can we ensure the safety of our people and perpetuate the success of our society. You must think in terms of what _you_ can do for the good of our world rather than what you can selfishly get out of it.”

“ _I call plagiarism. Where are the Kennedy lawyers?_ ” wrote Bucky, sending an increasingly exasperated Winter off again. He tried not to feel too bad about it, though: he knew for a _fact_ that Steve had some cat treats in the pocket of his robes.

Pierce shook his head with a disappointed expression, lamenting, “I know it isn’t profitable to work for the good of others. The Aurors who protect us are invaluable, and there is no way we can ever monetarily repay them with what they deserve. Many organizations designed to do good for others throughout the Wizarding world rarely get the recognition or financial support warranted by the generosity of the hearts in charge of them. That does not mean these ventures are not worth the time and effort of those willing to put themselves second and the fate of our world first. One such organization, which anyone who has read the _Daily Prophet_ in recent months will be familiar with, is run by one of the young men sitting here before me today.”

_Fuck my life. Seriously, just fuck it with a cactus._

“James Barnes,” announced Pierce, waving a hand towards where he was sitting so everyone knew who to stare awkwardly at, “is the founder and sole shareholder of the nonprofit charity organization called S.H.I.E.L.D. I think we can all agree that if anyone here could stand a little bit of selfishness in his life, it would be Mr. Barnes. But that isn’t the way he sees things. Instead of focusing on employment after school that will benefit _him_ , Mr. Barnes has turned his attention to one of the areas of our community that will always require the best we have to offer: children’s safety and education. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s mission statement is as follows: _‘To be the illumination in the darkness for the betterment of mankind. To be the light in the shadows for those who need it most._ ’”

Pierce had to stop there as sudden applause swept through the assembly, and Clint shook him proudly by the shoulders even as Bucky ducked his head to stare at the ground. His face was probably crimson enough that he could realistically pass for the Gryffindor banner floating in the breeze behind the podium.

Once things had settled enough for him to continue, Pierce nodded. “We should all be grateful for such an example of true courage, selflessness, and dedication to the wellbeing of the Wizarding world and strive to do the same. In fact, at this time I would like to announce that on Monday, the Ministry will be donating five million Galleons to the S.H.I.E.L.D. Foundation to be put to use in protecting and rejuvenating the minds of our youngest witches and wizards.”

Bucky’s head shot up and his mouth fell open as he stared blankly at the Minister. Everyone else broke out into thunderous applause once again, but he couldn’t feel less like celebrating. Five million Galleons? Yeah, that would be great, but there was no way he’d accept any money from Pierce’s filthy hands. He’d built S.H.I.E.L.D. during the summer before seventh year, funding all of it himself with the frankly ridiculous sum of money he had inherited. Thanks to Sarah and some of the finest minds at Gringotts, he’d invested a fair amount in various industries that had already seen a return, and it was doubtful that he’d ever _have_ to work a day in his life regardless of how much he spent on S.H.I.E.L.D. or paid the caretakers who were currently overseeing it while he finished his education. Tony was actually managing the building in his absence and had sunk a good bit of his own money into making sure the facilities in London were the best, both by Muggle _and_ magical technological standards; Bucky had contracted Tony’s newest creation, Stark Industries, for that very purpose and had (shockingly) never regretted it. If there was something they wouldn’t be likely to miss, it was the five million Galleons he would be sending right back to the Ministry on Monday morning.

Oh, but that wasn’t the best part.

“I’d like to invite Mr. Barnes up here to say a few words.”

 _That_ was the best part.

Except for the interview he’d done just over a year ago, Bucky hadn’t spoken in a public capacity…ever. Even when he opened S.H.I.E.L.D., he’d avoided the usual media circus and made sure that a tour of the facilities was held when he _wasn’t_ present. But this was an opportunity that even he couldn’t pass up, so Bucky stood from his seat and edged his way out of the row while everyone clapped and cheered excitedly for him. They probably wouldn’t stay that way for very long when they heard what he had to say, but hey, he wasn’t here to please people.

Up close, Pierce’s smirk was more arrogant than it had appeared from where he was sitting, and Bucky returned his gaze with an equally genuine smile as they shook hands formally. Then Pierce stepped aside, gesturing in what was probably supposed to be a gracious manner toward center stage.

Just before he took his place by the podium, Bucky slipped his wand out and pointed it at his throat, muttering, “ _Sonorus_.” Then, channeling everything he’d ever learned from his mother about addressing a crowd, he cleared his throat.

“Thank you for your kind words, Minister,” his amplified voice rang out over the grounds, echoing a bit as if he were speaking into a microphone in a stadium. It was almost as unnerving as the fact that _every pair of eyes_ was on him. As that hit him like a ton of bricks, he had to force himself to smile through it and keep talking rather than making a total fool of himself.

“The S.H.I.E.L.D. Foundation was originally an idea my mother came up with. Unfortunately, she didn’t live long enough to see it through. When I found her notes, I decided to finish what she started for the good of _everyone_.”

_Not just the Wizarding world, you prick._

Swallowing hard, he glanced around to see that he had everyone’s rapt attention. They actually _gave a shit_ about what he was saying. Now, of course, he had no clue how much of that was based on his own merit versus what was simply due to whose kid he was, but that was neither here nor there.

“When I first started S.H.I.E.L.D., which was the name my mother wanted to use, I tried to think of what it would stand for. It _is_ a shield for kids in need, whether they’re threatened by a lack of resources or an abusive home or just plain ignorance about the world around them imposed by people who don’t want them to know any better. It’s not _just_ for them, though. It’s also a shield for _anyone_ in need, of any age or creed. We’ll never shut our doors in anyone’s face when they come to us for help.”

There was a smattering of applause he was forced to pause for until he was allowed to keep going. “One thing the Minister didn’t mention that really hasn’t been covered a whole lot in the press is what S.H.I.E.L.D. _stands for_. It means _Sheltering Humanity in Every Lifestyle or Discipline_. It means we don’t care about whether you’re a wizard or a Muggle or any creature in between. If a house-elf shows up at our doors, we’ll be there. If a Muggle shows up looking for answers, we’ll be there. If a kid from a Pureblood family comes asking about the other side, we’ll be there. S.H.I.E.L.D. is out to help _humanity_ , whether they use magic or not. And that is why I am declining the Minister’s generous offer of five million Galleons.”

There it was—confused gasps and murmuring took over for a bit, and Bucky did absolutely nothing to stop them. He didn’t glance back at the Minister or any of the other officials, who probably thought he was off his rocker for not taking advantage of such a huge sum of money. When he caught a glimpse of his professors’ faces, however, there was more than one glimmer of pride staring back at him. Professor May was openly smiling for the first time _ever_ , and Fury was sitting up taller in his chair, the impatient glare having retreated to be replaced by a look of utmost calm.

Bucky waited patiently as the noise eventually died down, not wanting to speak over them. It took longer than he’d anticipated, but all eyes turned back to him, a bit more shocked this time than before. (It wasn’t due to his awesome and articulate public speaking skills either.)

“As much as the S.H.I.E.L.D. Foundation appreciates this show of support from the Ministry, it wouldn’t be right for us to accept these funds when they could be put to other use. The Ministry is, after all, an entity for the _magical_ community. Instead of giving us this gift for anyone in the world that might benefit from it, I urge the Ministry to take those same five million Galleons and use them to improve our knowledge of and cooperation with our Muggle neighbors starting from the magical side of the global community. As the Minister said, the wall between us is built on misunderstandings and a history of bigotry on both sides. S.H.I.E.L.D. will be here to help those in need, magical or not, but only the Ministry can send the message to the Wizarding world that we are one. Thank you.”

It took a long moment before everyone seemed to realize that he had finished; most still gaped at him like he had reverted to speaking Russian. One person clapped: Heimdall stood from his seat slowly, applauding with steady approval in his eyes.

Then he could see Steve getting to his feet to do the same.

And T’Challa.

Sam.

Clint.

Thor.

Fury and May. Coulson and Stark.

Soon the whole assembly was on its feet, applauding him as he stepped back from the podium and once again pointed his wand at his throat to remove the spell that had been amplifying his voice. His throat felt raw from the strain it had endured during his speech, but that was fine. No one was expecting him to say anything else as they continued to cheer for him.

To his left, the Minister stepped forward from where he’d retreated for the duration of Bucky’s speech, his smile looking more like a strained grimace now. If Bucky didn’t know any better, he’d think Pierce had been forced to eat a rat as he held his hand out to Bucky.

“Quite the diplomatic speech, Mr. Barnes,” he remarked as they shook hands, his voice low and unheard by anyone else. “It really is a surprise you didn’t decide to go into politics.”

Now that he was facing away from his audience, Bucky allowed his counterfeit smile to slip off his face and coldly replied, “Thank you, Minister. I learned from the best.”

With that, he turned his back on Pierce and returned to his seat. The students surrounding his chair all reached forward to clap him on the shoulder and utter words of encouragement and admiration; Coulson and Erskine, who were sitting immediately in front of him, turned to shake his hand as if he were an _equal_. Smiling bashfully, he went with the flow despite the urge to shrink into himself until everything calmed down enough for the Minister to complete his own speech.

Did everyone else notice that it was more rushed and superficial than the rest had been, or was it just him?

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” Pierce intoned. “Truly, you have proven today that you are even more selfless than any of us could have believed. Your work will be a gift to mankind, and I do not doubt that you will shape the century. Let us all take Mr. Barnes’s example and strive to be _better_ , for the good of all of us. Congratulations, class of 2014.”

The applause was more lukewarm this time, so Bucky had to assume that yes, other people had noticed how lackluster the conclusion was.

A tiny meow alerted him to Winter’s arrival, and he bent down to take the slip of parchment from her mouth before thinking _what the hell_ and pulling her into his lap.

“ _I swear, I think the ghost of your mom just talked at our graduation…_ ”

Chuckling breathlessly, Bucky merely shook his head. A year ago, he probably wouldn’t have been able to take that joke. Now, however, he couldn’t help smiling about it. After all, he didn’t really disagree. The beginning of his speech had been a bit rough, but…something had hit him hard enough to get him smoothly through the rest, and he knew who he had to thank for that. For once, he could look back at something he’d done and not have to _wonder_ if his parents would be proud of it—he already _knew_.

When Fury took the stage, the only thing he said was, “Well, I don’t think I could possibly say anything that would be as good as what we’ve already heard, so let’s just get to the diplomas.”

The crowd laughed, and the professors stood to usher them up from their seats. As their names were called, they crossed to the podium, shook Fury’s hand, and received their diploma from Professor May. The other professors stood in line before and after, congratulating them as they walked by and, in a few cases, giving out hugs and handshakes.

He was pretty close to first when Fury called out, “James Buchanan Barnes,” and the applause was almost as deafening as it had been after he spoke. All of the professors patted him on the back as he strode up to Fury, the headmaster gripping his hand tightly for a little longer than was usual to tell him quietly, “You made your parents proud today, Barnes.”

“Thank you, sir,” he whispered, blinking the sudden mist out of his eyes to take his diploma from Professor May, who actually pulled him into a stiff hug before he moved on. So did Ross, Erskine, and Heimdall; even Phillips held a hand out to shake with an approving nod.

Diploma in hand, Bucky was allowed to return to his seat and take a deep, cleansing breath. He’d done it.

He watched while the rest of his friends crossed at the front of the assembly, applauding and cheering in all the right places (which got him a stink-eye from Fury a couple of times, but no one tried to stop him or anyone else who did it). Bucky couldn’t hold in his laugh when Fury announced, “His Royal Highness T’Challa of Wakanda,” and everyone but Steve’s jaw dropped to the grass when _Luke_ appeared next in line.

“Dude, what the hell?!” exclaimed Clint beside him. Bucky reached out a finger to close his friend’s mouth only to have it swatted away as incredulous eyes rounded on him. “You _knew_?”

“Sort of?” he shrugged with a grin.

“You douchebag! How did you know?”

Bucky explained that they met before school and that T’Challa only told Steve because Bucky knew, but that did little to assuage Clint’s indignation.

“We’ve been best friends with a fucking prince and didn’t even know it,” he grumbled, slumping back in his chair even though they were supposed to stay standing.

“Maybe you can get him to let you try on his crown to say sorry,” consoled Bucky with some underlying snark. Clint flipped him off.

Once everyone had been called and returned to their seats, Fury stood before them and declared that they were _officially_ graduates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the class of 2014. Everyone broke into applause, and Bucky felt more than saw the people behind him throwing the stupid hats they’d had to wear with their robes up into the air in glee (probably more from getting to take the damn things off than to have graduated, really). Clint grabbed Bucky’s off his head and threw them up together while Bucky hugged Winter to his chest and laughed.

Because this was _real_. It was real when Sarah ran up and threw her arms around his shoulders in a bone-crushing hug. It was real when Mikhail clapped him on the shoulder and told him how proud both he and Tatiana were of him. It was real when he and his friends immaturely _oooooooh’ed_ at the kiss Peggy laid on Steve the moment he was within reach, much to the latter’s blushing embarrassment. The love, happiness, and delight were all real as they made their way to the boats for the last time and sailed towards Hogsmeade for the celebration that would take place in the rented out Three Broomsticks.

 As it probably always would, a tiny voice in the back of his head reminded him that he shouldn’t be here, but Bucky ignored it. The fact of the matter was that he _was_ here and _had_ made it this far, and that was something to be proud of. Not every day would be a good one—many of them would probably suck. But today, life was good, and he would bask in the moment and the sensation of being loved for as long as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The note about the Kennedy's lawyers references the similarity between what Pierce told them and what President Kennedy once said: "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country."
> 
> And there you have part two. Part three is about three chapters from completion (it ended up longer than I thought at the time of my last estimate), chapter one of which will be posted tomorrow. (If you read this when I first posted it, I said it wouldn't be until Friday, but my plans have changed so that I can swing it!) You can expect daily updates as usual. I hope you'll continue to stick with me for the conclusion of this story! :)
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who's still reading, whether you started while I was working on "World So Cold" or are relatively new to the series. I know how big a risk it is to take a chance on reading a work-in-progress. There's never any guarantee, no matter how much the author claims to have written, that it will ever be finished; you go into it crossing your fingers and hoping for the best. I've seen a lot of people who say they won't even read WIPs until they are finished. So thank you not only for reading, but for taking the chance on these stories and on me. Your feedback is invaluable, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story as we reach the conclusion. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Would you like to see a scene from someone else's point of view or have a prompt? Leave a comment and I'll write you a one-shot!


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